


The Gift of Yavanna

by EarendilElwing



Series: The Blessings of the Valar [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Hobbits have secrets, M/M, Magic Plants, Seemingly unrequited love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4354895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarendilElwing/pseuds/EarendilElwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Even though I am not your intended ‘One’, I still love you, Thorin Oakenshield.  And I will continue to love you for the rest of my life.”  Bilbo forced a laugh.  “However long or short that may be.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came from two main inspirations:
> 
> First: it seemed to me that there are a number of stories that portray Thorin as the one struggling with the concept of Bilbo being is “One” or soulmate and not being able to tell him, but very few (that I know of) go the other way around. I’ve read some fantastic stories in the “unrequited love” category or from Bilbo’s P.O.V, but not so much in dealing with something like a soulmate level of it. So I wanted to add that in a way (along with the angst of unrequited love. Sorry, but I have trouble getting away from that). 
> 
> Second: something that I will reveal at the end of the story. I wouldn’t want to give away too much.
> 
> A.N. 1 Some italicized sections indicate that the speaker is using Sindarin or Quenya. It will be clear in the context of the story. Translations for small phrases and words will be listed at the end of each chapter, with a full list at the very end. I’m only just starting to research them, so please correct me if I’ve gotten something wrong. I want to be as accurate as possible, but I don’t know if the resources I’ve been using are correct. I’d love some suggestions if anyone knows of some good resources.
> 
> A.N. 2 Combination of book and movie events with borrowed lines from both. References to The Silmarillion, but hopefully not so in-depth to be confusing.
> 
> A.N. 3 You’ll find throughout this story that some things will not be fully explained. The reason for this is because I plan to fill those plot holes in a sequel.  
>    
> Art inspired by this story:  
>  [This beautiful piece](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/post/129862399192/gift-of-yavanna-by-earendilelwing-i-had-to-take) by StarvingArtist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Insufferable dwarf...”

Bilbo Baggins trudged up the steep slope, his eyes fixed on his destination.  A biting breeze whistled all around him, and he futilely pulled his coat and scarf tighter around his small form, even though garments no longer provided him with any warmth.  Only the sun was able to thaw the lingering chill in his bones most days, but it was still too dark at the moment.

After laboring for an indeterminate amount of time, the path leveled at last.  The ruins of what might have been a stone stairway gave way to frozen earth, dotted here and there by large chunks of broken masonry.  He exhaled in relief, and hoped once more that the icy ground might still hold just a little bit of heat and enough nutrients to sustain them through the winter.  He would not have this long journey, so full of suffering, end in vain.

Bilbo was careful to keep his distance from the sheer drop of the cliff when he turned to gaze out over the dark valley below.  To his right was the once ruined city of Dale, now inhabited by the survivors of Laketown.  From this vantage, he could see the light of many bonfires, and he remembered feeling so small when he wandered amidst the multitude of men, dwarves, and elves working side-by-side to restore the city to its former glory.  To his left were the gates of Erebor, newly rebuilt by craftsmen from the Iron Hills.  Even now, so early in the morning, they stood open to welcome caravans transporting supplies and dwarves returning home at long last.  

It was hard to believe that it was only a few weeks ago that the field between the two settlements had been the sight of a great battle, in which countless lives were lost.  It was only due to timely aid, and no small amount of luck, that Bilbo and his dear companions had not been counted among the dead, despite a few close calls.

The hobbit’s sight remained on the dwarven kingdom and his thoughts strayed now to his friends: thirteen stubborn, brave, and all around wonderful (in their own ways) dwarves.  His contact with them had been limited these past weeks, as they were still healing from their wounds while overseeing cleanup and rebuilding efforts.  Even if he could have been of any assistance, he was technically still banished from the realm.  He was fairly certain that his friends would welcome him with open arms, should he choose to visit, but he was keenly aware that Dain’s subordinates considered him a traitor because of the Arkenstone incident, and would continue to do so until Thorin decreed otherwise.

Bilbo smiled when a bittersweet sense of nostalgia washed over him and ignited a faint twinge in the center of his chest.  Thorin had been the one who had come closest to death during his final duel with Azog, but he would live, thanks in large part to Bilbo.  He was recovering within his childhood home, completely oblivious to Bilbo’s current state.  It was unlikely that the dwarf king was even aware that the very being he had threatened to kill had saved his life (and not for the first time, either).  

Bilbo was not sure where he and Thorin stood anymore.  All he could do was hope, and trust the occasional message from Balin, that everything was alright.  He wanted Thorin to be well and at peace.  He wanted him to claim his rightful crown, and rule over the kingdom he had sacrificed and fought so hard to regain.  He wanted Thorin to be happy.

He also wanted to be around to witness and be a part of it all, but not every wish was attainable.

Just then, a series of loud thumps accompanied by drastically quieter footfalls drew Bilbo from his inner musings, and he grinned.  If Gandalf, or the female elf trailing him, had any inclination of sneaking up on him, they would be sorely disappointed.  The magic and ethereal nature they’d been endowed with could accomplish many unbelievable feats, but taking a hobbit at unawares was not one of them, especially when he had half expected them to appear.  He waved cheekily when the huffing wizard appeared, coming from the very same path Bilbo had finished climbing.

“Good morning!” he called, noting the flash of relief that flickered across his companions’ faces.

“Good morning?” Gandalf sputtered.  A scowl tugged his aged features downward.  “Bilbo Baggins!  I have been sick with worry!  I’ve been looking all over for you, wondering if you’d left before I could bid you farewell.  And when I finally find you, after scaling this Valar-forsaken mountain, all you can say is _‘good morning_ ’?”

Bilbo made a show of looking chagrinned, though in truth, he wasn’t all that ashamed of himself.  Time was running out, and he didn’t want to be delayed by a barrage of questions and long goodbyes.

Gandalf seemed to understand in some measure, for his expression softened as he came to stand close, towering over the hobbit.  “How long?” he whispered.

Bilbo shrugged.  “Soon, I should think.  That’s why I came up here.  This...” and he gestured to the general area with a sweep of his arm, “is where I want to be when... when it happens.”

He took a few steps closer to the cliff, returning his gaze to the kingdom he’d helped rescue from a dragon while he explained his reasoning.  “Assuming she survives the winter, this spot offers the best chance that her seeds will scatter all around the mountain and fields.  Hopefully, enough of them will take root and make everything green again.”  His voice dropped in volume and pitch.  “And... I want Erebor to be the last thing I see when the time comes.”

“Bilbo...” The red-haired elf that had followed Gandalf came to kneel in front of him, so that they were eye level.  “This cannot be.  I will not accept it.  Surely there is some way to stop this or reverse it.  Or delay it at the very least.  Please...”  She placed her hands on his shoulders.  “I would not lose you so soon, _mellon_.”

Bilbo chuckled and shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Tauriel.  The only one who COULD help is Thorin, but even if he wanted to, I don’t think he can, if you take my meaning.”

“It would not hurt to try, would it?  He is well now, and his mind is free and clear.  Kili told me that he means to make amends to you.  I am certain he would help, if only he knew it was in his power to do so.”

When he did not respond, she stood up and swiftly began to retrace her steps down the broken path.

“Tauriel?  Where are you going?” Bilbo called.

“To find that fool of a dwarf king,” she shouted back.  She was gone before he could mount a protest.

He sighed heavily while Gandalf merely smiled.  At Bilbo’s glance, he murmured, “Oh the impatience and hopeful follies of youth.”

“I guess she _is_ pretty young, at least by elvish standards,” Bilbo agreed as a ran a hand through his curly locks.

The Grey Wizard trudged closer and took a seat on a large, overturned block of stone.  He let his staff lean against his body while he fished out his pipe and a pouch of Old Toby from somewhere on his person.  After packing his pipe, he held out the tobacco pouch to Bilbo and raised his bushy eyebrows.

Bilbo held up a hand.  “Thank you, but you should save it for yourself.  Much as I would like to, I’m afraid I can’t properly enjoy it anymore.”

Gandalf withdrew the offer, stuffing the pouch back into his robes before lighting his pipe with a glowing finger.

Strangely, the familiarity of such an everyday activity brought comfort to Bilbo, when he supposed he should be more sullen.  He was grateful for it, if indeed that was Gandalf’s aim.  Still, he did not want to hinder him from tending to more pressing matters.

“I’m okay, Gandalf,” Bilbo assured him.  “Really.”

The wizard smiled around his pipe as his eyes roved up and down his diminutive form.  He took a shallow inhale and then blew out several colorful smoke rings.  “I’m sure you are,” he said slowly.  “But I’m quite fond of you, you know, and I should like to stay by your side until it’s over, if you have no objections.”

Bilbo nodded, touched by the gesture and the admission.  “I think I would like that.  Thank you.”  He moved away from the edge and went back to the exact spot he’d chosen for the occasion, facing Erebor.  Following a long, companionable silence, he whispered, “I _am_ glad you’re with me, Gandalf, here at the end.”

“So am I, dear boy,” Gandalf replied.  He paused for a beat, and then added, “Tauriel was right, you know.  Thorin truly is a fool.”

Bilbo laughed at that, if only so that he would not break down and cry.  And while he waited for the inevitable to occur, he reflected fondly on his journey, and the moments that had brought him here.

* * *

In the beginning, most of the dwarves were friendly, or at least semi-cordial to Bilbo (with Thorin as the only standout exception), but most did not actively try to get to know him.  Gandalf had tried to explain to him that in general, they learned about and endeared themselves to others by observation and action over polite, inquisitive conversation.  That wasn’t to say that they would not engage in it at all, or that they’d refuse to share their own experiences if asked to do so.  It was simply that they lived by the old adage that “actions spoke louder than words”, and therefore, they would not open up or welcome him fully until he’d _done_ something (no matter if the gesture was big or small) to encourage it.  

Bombur, for example, was won over by Bilbo’s genuine interest in his recipes and cooking abilities, his refusal to tease or comment on his considerable size, and his willingness to help out in any way during meal times.  Fili and Kili took to him after he begrudgingly covered for them when one of their numerous pranks went horribly awry, while Dori bonded with him when Bilbo offered to share his favorite tea with him.  It was an exhausting process and well worth the effort, but even after they began to accept him as a friend and member of their company, most of them didn’t show much interest in Bilbo’s culture or his deeper nature for a long time.

The first one to actually ask Bilbo about anything further than the daily lives of hobbits or other surface level topics was Ori.  Ever the scholar, he was far more open-minded and curious about the world at large and the other races that inhabited it.  He was reserved compared to the others, and unobtrusive, so he did not approach Bilbo with anything more than pleasantries until he’d overheard him singing softly in Sindarin.

“You can speak Elvish, Mister Baggins?” he asked.

Bilbo nodded as he struggled to keep his pony on the path.  “Mm-hmm.  I’m a bit out-of-practice, since there’s little call for it in the Shire, but I’ve always liked using it whenever I can.  Sometimes, I even translate stories and songs back and forth between Westron and Sindarin in my free time.”

“Really?  Me too!” Ori glanced around to see if anyone else was listening, and then elaborated quietly, “I’ve copied some sections of our journey in both Westron and Sindarin.”  He thumped the heavy book peaking out of the pack hanging at his hip.  “We usually keep our history records in Khuzdul so it stays secret from outsiders, but I like to think that someday others would be interested to read the story of how we took back Erebor.”

“I think I should like to have a copy, Master Ori.”  Bilbo glanced up thoughtfully.  “Or I suppose I could write my own version someday.  Then again, I may need you to send it to the Shire, since there’s a good chance I’ll be fulfilling one or more of those ‘incineration’ clauses in my contract.  It’ll probably become a fable for fauntlings, to teach them why they should never go on adventures,” he pouted, not for the first time.

Ori opened and closed his mouth a few times, likely meaning to refute such a statement, but ultimately he decided it was better not to comment on the likelihood of Bilbo’s certain death, or his misgivings on signing up for this endeavor.  Instead, he latched onto another topic to continue the conversation.  “Is it common for hobbits to teach their young through stories then?”

Bilbo brightened considerably, excited by the dwarf’s curiosity.  “Oh yes!  I think everyone loves to hear or tell a good story, and hobbits certainly remember things a lot better that way.  We’re not as meticulous or concerned with written histories like elves or dwarves though, so we’ve lost a lot over time.  There’s really only one account concerning hobbits from the Elder Days that we all know, and we’re taught it as young as possible.”

Ori’s eyes went a little wide with youthful anticipation.  “Oh, would you tell it to me, Mister Baggins?  I love hearing stories about the First Age.”  He hesitated and bit his bottom lip.  “Um... unless it’s supposed to be a secret...”

Bilbo laughed with a shake of his head.  “Not at all!  We tend to be suspicious of outsiders, but once we trust you, we’ll tell you pretty much whatever you want to know.  I’d be happy to share the tale with you, if you like.”

The scribe bobbed his head.  “Oh yes, please!  And can you tell it in Sindarin?  I’ve always felt that stories from the Elder Days just sound more potent in the elvish tongues.  Besides, I could use some practice in hearing and speaking it.”

Bilbo had refrained from using any of the Elvish languages too often thus far in their journey, since there was obvious disdain among most of the dwarves at any and all things elvish.  Luckily, he and Ori, along with Gandalf, were trailing at the end of the procession, and would probably not be overheard as long as they kept their voices low.  And Bilbo could hardly resist such enthusiasm.  “As you wish.”  He sat up a little straighter in his saddle, and puffed out his chest.  Then he switched to storyteller mode in his mind and flowed easily into hushed Sindarin.

**_“In the aftermath of the War of Wrath, in which Morgoth the accursed was defeated utterly and shut behind the Door of Night, great numbers of the Eldar forsook the Hither Lands and set sail for the Blessed Realm.  Though many yet remained, determined to heal the hurts left on the lands they loved, there were not enough, for the shape of the land itself had changed and the evils wrought by the servants of the Dark Lord were not easily undone._ **

**_“Few elves or men were aware of it, but some of the Valar and the Maiar wandered the wide world beyond their domain, surveying the damage left in the wake of the great battle before the gates of Thangorodrim.  Among those that walked and wept unseen was Yavanna, Lady of earth and all things that grow.  She, like the other Valar, was sorrowful for Eru Ilúvatar’s children, those that suffered and died or were lost to the darkness.  But she also gave thought to the seemingly endless marring of the world._ **

**_“It seemed to her that little now remained of the Valar’s original designs, her own especially.  She had been gifted with the Shepherds of the Trees to defend her creations, but even they were not immune to the fires of Morgoth.  The land was laid bare, and she knew that it would be many long years before life would return to it, and all would be green and glad again._ **

**_“So Yavanna grieved, as a mother whose children were slain before their time.  But as she cried, there came into her heart a strange awareness that she was not, in fact, the only being that mourned the loss of plants and trees.  She felt it in the earth beneath her feet and heard the wails in the winds of Manwë.  Long she roamed, seeking the ones whose hearts mirrored hers, and she found them at last in the Northern regions of Middle Earth, below what would be one day be called the Vales of Anduin._ **

**_“She was rather astonished by the tiny creatures, for she had not seen their like before, nor could she recall their mention by any of the other Valar.  She watched them, invisible to their eyes, and delighted in them.  They were small in stature, not too dissimilar from the children of Aulé, though they were shorter still and slight.  They had keen, bright eyes, round, merry faces, and clever, nimble fingers.  Their hands especially made her smile, because, like her own, they were covered in soil from planting, tilling, and weeding the ground._ **

**_“She observed their labors to restore the vast greenery and gardens she had sown in ages past, grateful to know that she was not alone in her anguish.  The small beings were persistent and hard working, but they despaired in knowing that the product of their toils was so very fragile.  Barren fields saddened them, and they languished with the withering of trees and flowers._ **

**_“Yet they loved the designs of Yavanna, so they continued to do all that they could to nurture the land, and with the help of elves and dwarves, they had developed many ingenious ways to achieve their goals.  One practice in particular fascinated Yavanna, and the beginnings of a plan formed in her mind._ **

**_“Working closely with the other races that lived near them, the hobbits (for that is what they were, of course) had added to their homes marvelous little rooms constructed of tinted green glass, wherein was housed innumerable clay pots.  When the seasons changed and the weather of the world became too inhospitable for growing things, they would pack the pots with soil and plant the seeds there, and the “greenhouses” provided the perfect atmosphere for them to grow into small plants.  Then, when spring came again, they would transplant the thriving saplings from the pots to the fields of the earth._ **

**_“Now the Valar do not sense the passage of time the way mortal beings do, so it was many years before Yavanna at last contrived a solution to the problem of the perpetual destruction upon her creations, and thus resolved to act.  With Manwë’s blessing, she revealed herself to the hobbits, and for the first time, they beheld one of the Valar in glory, and they were greatly afraid.  But she spoke kindly to them, sharing their love of trees and plants, and praising their efforts to restore her work.  And when she had earned their love and trust in turn, she declared to them her purpose....”_ **

“Master Baggins!  A word...”

Bilbo and Ori both jumped at the deep, bellowing voice that interrupted the story.  Ori had thus far not voiced any questions or comments he might have had, because he’d become so enraptured by the tale, and Bilbo was quite practiced at being able to recite even dry histories with a melodic and focused energy.  As a result, they’d both tuned out all else until they were startled out of their trance.

They shared a nervous glance, and then Bilbo reluctantly guided his pony to catch up with Thorin.  He forced himself to smile and meet their leader’s glare.  “Yes, Master Oakenshield?”

He reciprocated with a sneer.  “Tell me, Master Baggins, do you see any elves in the company?”  His words were slow and utterly condescending.

“I’m sorry?”

“Since you insist on speaking in their tongue, I assumed there must be elves accompanying us on this quest.  Is that so?  Have I missed them somehow?”

Bilbo did not appreciate being spoken to like a wayward child, but he was still rather intimidated by the Thorin.  He was rude and haughty, but there was no question that his presence commanded respect and attention.  Bilbo frowned, and did not answer.

“I will not have the language of my enemies spoken in my presence.  You will keep to the common tongue from now on.  Are we understood?”

Bilbo bit back a number of biting retorts and nodded.

“Good.”  Thorin spurred his pony ahead, leaving the fuming hobbit with no further dismissal.  

Bilbo checked his own mount so that he could fall back to the end of the procession again.  The other dwarves were quick to pass him, some offering small, sympathetic grins, while others threw a sharp glance that clearly said they were in full agreement with their king.

“Sorry, Bilbo,” murmured Ori, returning to ride by his side.

He turned to the young lad and shrugged.  “There’s no need to apologize.”  He lowered his voice and groused, “You’re not the one being utterly unreasonable.”

“But I am the one who insisted on speaking Sindarin.  He should have reprimanded me.”  Ori ducked his head a little.  “You should _told_ him it was me.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.  He would have blamed me anyway,” Bilbo spat bitterly.  “Insufferable dwarf...”  He stared down at his hands, clenching the reins of his pony so tightly that they almost popped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mellon = friend (Common enough that I’m sure most people already knew that)


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bebother and confusticate you, Thorin Oakenshield!” he lamented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this story is like 90% completed, so I'll be posting the entire thing within a week or so, maybe two.

Bilbo tugged on his mittens, somewhat alarmed by the creaking pops his finger joints were emitting.  He’d been anticipating such a development, but it was a different sensation than what he was used to, and he was not sure how to handle it.  When at last he’d freed his calloused fingers from their soft prisons and discarded them, he took a moment to study them with interest.

The skin on his hands and wrists had always been the same, sun-kissed tone that most hobbits possessed, but now they looked pale and rigid.  It made the startling change in the shape and color of his, or rather _their_ veins far more visible - they had turned a dark, earthy brown and resembled tiny, pointed tree branches rather than the curvy, interwoven vines they usually were.  What was even more abnormal was that they pulsed with a soft golden light, similar to the glow of fireflies.  The sharp snaps he’d heard were a combination of the forceful stretching of tiny muscles, bones that had fractured and separated and the detaching of tendons and ligaments as his fingers slowly elongated beyond what hobbit anatomy permitted.

The process was rather painful, causing sharp, tingly feelings beneath his skin, as though he was being stabbed by thousands of tiny needles.  He hoped that would be the worst of it, but he knew there was more to come.  He had managed stop himself from crying out this time, but he doubted he’d be able to do so when the rest of his body succumbed.

“I imagine that this is not quite how you envisioned your journey would end,” Gandalf stated, inviting Bilbo to speak his thoughts aloud.

Bilbo grinned and quipped, “Not at all.  I can think of many times I thought my life would be over on this ridiculous quest.  Let’s see...”  He struggled to count on his misshapen fingers.  “I was almost cooked by trolls, eviscerated by wargs, impaled by orcs, eaten whole by Gollum, starved in a forest, drowned in a river, barbequed by a dragon, thrown off a wall, and had my head bashed in.  And yet, I had always hoped that we’d all succeed, and I’d return to the Shire when it was over.”

He looked down at his hands again and tried to flex the digits, but they had become too stiff to move.  He took a deep breath.  “But... all things considered, I really don’t mind how things turned out, for my part, I guess.”

Gandalf raised a curious eyebrow.  “Do you mean to tell me that you had not dreamed of a rather different conclusion?  Perhaps one in which you would remain in Erebor... with Thorin?”

Bilbo thought he’d be incapable of blushing at this point, but the warmth spreading on his face indicated otherwise.  He cleared his throat a few times and disregarded the wizard’s knowing smirk.  Finally, he answered, “Well yes.  I mean no.  Er...”  He rested one of his nearly solidified hands over his heart.  “I think that once I accepted my feelings, I knew that this would happen.  Even after we finally became friends, I knew that he was... well... quite beyond me.  I’m just a hobbit, after all.  What have I to offer a king?”

“Far more than you know,” Gandalf said firmly.  “Even after all you’ve done, you still underestimate your worth, dear friend.”

“Perhaps.”  He curled in a little on himself and permitted a small, self-deprecating smile.  “Of course, I might have had a better chance, if only I hadn’t been so resistant.  When it began, I had convinced myself that I still didn’t really like Thorin all that much.  The notion that he, of all people, would have that effect on me was utterly ridiculous...”

* * *

Rivendell was a wonder that Bilbo had never imagined he’d get to experience.  His mother had told him many tales as a fauntling, but even her legendary skill for storytelling hardly did it justice.  So while the dwarves groused and stayed hunkered down in their own rooms for the most part, he intended to take full advantage of their stay to explore as much of the Hidden Valley as time allowed.  He wandered the grand halls, examined the ancient artifacts on display, flipped through as many books as he could handle, and chatted up various elves, including Lord Elrond, amicably.  He cared not that his dwarven company shot him suspicious glares whenever he returned to them, Thorin especially.  Their feud with the elves was of no concern of his.

In fact, he’d hardly seen much of his company after that first shared meal with their host, for they refused to associate with their “enemies” any more than was strictly necessary, while Bilbo was frequently invited to dine and converse with many of Rivendell’s residents.  He was grateful for each opportunity afforded him, not only to expand his horizons, but also to distract him from the discomfort he’d been experiencing in his chest as of late.

He had thought, perhaps, that it was due to the all of the recent running from Wargs and Orcs.  Bilbo was by no means unfit, by hobbit standards at least, for he was fond of long, frequent walks around the Shire and was not nearly as inactive and sedentary as the dwarves seemed to believe at times.  He was certainly no warrior, and would never possess the strength or build of his companions, but he had thus far kept up rather well, all things considered.  Even so, the desperate sprint across the barren plains on their way to Rivendell had taxed him.  His leg muscles were still sore and stiff days later, and he remembered how his lungs burned from the near-hyperventilation.  Surely that must be the cause of the heaviness and warmth in the center of his chest.

He was resolutely sure that it had nothing to do with the bright blue eyes that stared at him as though he was the most vexing creature imaginable.    

Bilbo frowned and shook his head, determined to give no credence to such an outlandish and barely conceived fantasy.

He strolled along one of the many tree-lined paths, hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers, contemplating what he might occupy himself with today.  Gandalf expected him to be available later tonight, when Lord Elrond would (hopefully) take a closer look at their map of the Lonely Mountain.  For some incomprehensible reason, the wizard thought that Bilbo’s presence might be useful in tempering Thorin’s foul mood and distrust, though he did not elaborate on why that should be.  He didn’t mind, since maps and runes fascinated him, but that meant that if he wanted to savor any peace and quiet today without the obvious tension between the two races, he’d best enjoy it now.

Before long, Bilbo had followed this particular path to its end and found a circular sitting area surrounded by a lush garden, nearly hidden by tall, ornate columns covered in sprawling, leafy ivy.  The columns protected the garden from potentially harsh elements, but kept it open and airy, allowing for plenty of warm sunlight to bathe the whole area.  Cushioned stone benches were arranged in a semi-circle facing the path, making for a very inviting atmosphere for silent contemplation or perhaps a relaxing smoke.

Bilbo decided on the latter as he approached, already pulling out his pipe, when he noticed that the area was not unoccupied.  A small, hunched figure was sitting on one of the benches, staring at the ground as he idly swung his legs.

“Oh, hello Kili,” he greeted with a smile.  Despite the young dwarf’s pension for pranks, he was immensely fond of him and his older brother, and would be glad of his company.  It was odd to see only one of the Durin siblings though, and Bilbo cast a critical eye around, just to be sure he wasn’t about to fall victim to one of their schemes.  “Where’s Fili?”

“Sparing with Thorin, I think.”  

“And you’re not with them?”

Kili pouted and crossed his arms.  “What?  Am I not allowed to go anywhere without him?  I can’t just think by myself for a change?”

Bilbo held up a placating hand, laughing a little.  “No, sorry!  I didn’t mean anything by it.  I’m just not used to seeing one of you without the other skulking nearby, is all.”  He grinned at Kili’s protest that either he or his brother were ever “skulking” anywhere.  “Anyway, do you mind if I join you?  Or do you want to be left alone?”

Kili shrugged.  “Do whatever you want.”

“Very well.”  Bilbo took a seat on the bench opposite of Kili and proceeded to pack and light his pipe.  He was content to just sit in quiet thought, blowing smoke rings, but after a few moments, he noticed Kili squirming and casting him glances, his mouth gaping like a fish.  He smiled to encourage the young dwarf.  “Something on your mind?”

Kili flushed and shook his head, but his agitation betrayed him.  Bilbo waited patiently for him to put his thoughts in order.

“I had to get away for a bit,” he finally admitted.  “The others, they’ve been on my case since dinner that first night, and they won’t let up.”

“Oh?  What about?” Bilbo asked.  He couldn’t really recall much of that evening other than his own irritation at the dwarves’ appalling manners, and Balin’s insistence that his beautiful new sword was probably a letter opener.

Kili clenched his fists and avoided eye contact.  “The elves,” he muttered, without any sort of venom.  “Uncle and the others hate them, and I know I should too; they deserve it, but...”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I don’t know... I don’t think they’re so bad, really.”  His admission seemed to embarrass him a great deal.  “I mean, they don’t like us either, but they’re nothing like the stories I’ve been told.  I think they’re actually... kinda pretty.”  His face glowed a healthy red.

Bilbo took a deep drag from his pipe, well aware that Kili was watching and waiting for his reaction.  At any other time, he would have been tempted to tease him in turn, but the situation was obviously causing the younger prince stress.  “Is it really such a bad thing... to admire the elves?”

“I don’t know,” Kili whispered.  “Ori doesn’t seem to think so, but Thorin...”

“But Thorin is such an ass, when it comes to elves,” Bilbo added with a frown, but it was quickly replaced by a grin at seeing Kili struggle between being horrified and amused at his complete disregard for his uncle.

“It’s not just Thorin, and he hasn’t said anything to me.  It’s mostly Dwalin and Fili.  They started it by saying since I’m attracted to elves, then my One must be an elf.”  Kili gasped and slapped his palm over his own mouth, apparently having said something that he shouldn’t have.

Bilbo had no idea what part of his statement was taboo.  “Why does that bother you?”

The lad looked affronted that he had asked, and the worry written on his face made him look much younger.  His bottom lip even started to quiver just a fraction.  “B-because, I’m a dwarf!  And I’m not supposed to _like_ elves, much less _love_ them.  But the elf maids are so beautiful, even without facial hair, and I can’t stop looking!  What if they’re right?  What if my One is an elf?  What’ll I do?  What will Thorin think?  What will _mom_ think?”

“Woah, calm down, Kili!” Bilbo interrupted.  He got up from his own seat and hurried over to sit next to him instead.  “Take a deep breath, okay?”  It was strange to him that the dark-haired princeling would get so worked up over something like this.  It sounded like he was having a mini-identity crisis, and Thorin’s over bloated sense of pride probably wasn’t helping matters, especially since Kili looked up to his uncle.  The thought that Thorin would be disappointed at such a turn of events must really be weighing on him.

Bilbo sighed and awkwardly pat the boy’s back a few times.  He was rather sure that his contract did not include any clauses about dealing with a teenager’s existential crisis or romantic advice, and he was immensely under qualified to help.  Then again, he was more or less a neutral party in everything that seemed to be happening on this journey, and he didn’t like seeing Kili so distressed.

“Kili... is there a particular elf you like that’s brought this whole thing on?” he inquired after some consideration.

“What?  No, not at all!  I just...”

“Then I don’t really see the issue here.”  Before he could get himself into a panic again, Bilbo explained, “Listen, being in love with someone and being attracted to them are not always the same thing.  They go in hand-in-hand a lot, but just because you find elves admirable or beautiful doesn’t mean you’ll fall in love with one.”

“It doesn’t?”  When Bilbo nodded, Kili released a deep sigh of relief.

Bilbo squeezed his shoulder.  “And even if you do happen to fall in love with an elf, it’s really no one’s business but your own.  There might be consequences, sure, but if you _really_ love someone, I think you’ll find that any pain that comes along will be worth it in the end.”

His dwarf companion scoffed.  “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”  He scratched at the stubble on his chin and grew still momentarily while he considered his words.  “Bilbo?  You said that love and attraction aren’t the same thing, but they seem pretty similar.  How do you tell the difference?”  His voice lowered to a contemplative whisper.  “How will I know when it’s love?  How will I know that I’ve found my One?”

Bilbo stifled a groan.  This was not his area of expertise.  At least Kili hadn’t asked where babies come from.  He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to try to have _that_ talk with him as well.  “Kili, I...” He fully intended to just dismiss the rest of the conversation, or tell him to go ask his uncle, but stopped short at the wide-eyed puppy stare he was receiving.  No one could resist such a look, and in retrospect, sending him to Thorin was probably a horrible idea.

He cleared his throat and looked away from those watery eyes, scratching his head.  He breathed from his pipe a few times before he finally came to some semblance of an answer.  “In all honesty, Kili, it’s not something that is easily explained.  I think most people would tell you that you just _know_ , when it’s love, but everyone’s so different, that it doesn’t quite fit.  Hobbits get a very clear sign when we start to fall in love for real, you see, so there is no confusion with us.  I don’t know how dwarves handle these things.  You’d be better off asking one of the older dwarves... maybe Balin or Dori.  They’d probably help you without giving you too much trouble about it.”

“Aww... I don’t wanna ask the others!” Kili whined.  “Wait... so like, hobbits _automatically_ know when they’re in love?  Do you have soulmates?  Do you know right away when you meet them?”

Said hobbit chuckled at the barrage of questions.  “Hey, slow down!  Yes, usually we do know right away when it’s real love, but no; I don’t think what we have are considered soulmates.  And we do NOT know at first sight, if you take my meaning.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Kili complained.

Bilbo pressed a hand over his chest, rubbing that strange warm spot that had appeared and debated whether or not it would be of any value to explain his heritage.  “Well, there’s an old tale that goes back to the First Age...”

He recounted the same story had told Ori some weeks prior, in Westron of course, but without Thorin around to interrupt, he was able to continue a bit more.  “ **...When Yavanna had earned their love and trust in turn, she declared to them her purpose.**

**“Fire and ruin might utterly destroy that which could not move and defend itself, but such things could be protected by others that could, especially if their lives began within a vessel that could be moved.  So in the same way that the hobbits planted seeds in clay pots and nurtured them in the greenhouses, so Yavanna would do.  If they were agreeable, she could bestow upon the next generation of yet unborn hobbits a supernatural ability, wherein she would plant a magic seed within each of their hearts.  They would be _living_ greenhouses, able to better protect her creations and tend them with care, until such time as they were strong enough to thrive in the earth.**

**“The seeds themselves would be unlike any found or harvested in the wild, for life and will, not unlike the Shepherds of the Trees, would be in them.  They would grow and multiply far more quickly than any common flora, so as to perpetuate the regrowth of barren lands.**

**“As for the hobbits, they could continue their own manner of farming and gardening as they ever have, but in this way, they would always have access to the plants that they loved.  They could scatter across all of Arda and never have to worry about where they would find seeds to begin anew.  All the land of Middle Earth might be laid low and bare, but so long as hobbits endured, it could become green and filled with life again.**

**“She went on to explain that as their trees and flowers were cared for with great love, so love would be the catalyst and culmination of her design.  The seed that was planted in their hearts would awaken and begin to develop when they found themselves drawn to another in deep and true affection, and the plants would grow as their love for one another did...** ”

Bilbo stopped there, feeling that it was more than enough for Kili to take in at the moment.  He was right to do so, since Kili was having a difficult time grasping the core concepts wrapped in the formal telling of the tale, if his narrowed eyes and frown was any indication.

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he mumbled, rubbing his temples.  “So you’ve got a _seed_ in your body that starts to grow when you fall in love?”

Bilbo nodded.

“I mean... a _real_ seed?  And it actually grows into a plant?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes.  “Yes, Kili.  That’s what I just finished telling you.”

“That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Bilbo  snorted, mildly indignant at such a comment.  “I suppose it would sound strange to an outsider,” he conceded.  “But for hobbits, for me, it’s perfectly normal.  It’s just a natural part of who and what we are.”

Kili eyed him, as though expecting him to sprout leaves on the spot.  “How does it happen exactly?”

Bilbo closed his eyes and resumed smoking the remaining bits of Old Toby in his pipe between statements.  “Let’s see, first we get to know each other for a bit, the same way friends do.  Of course, there has to be _some_ attraction, though that can develop over time as well.  From what I’ve been told, the first physical part is a noticeable change in body temperature, starting near the heart.  There’s a sudden and constant warmth, almost stifling, like the kind you’d feel in a greenhouse, if you’ve ever been in one.  It feels... heavy, and humid, and you just can’t get comfortable...”  His face paled, and he frowned, trailing off quite suddenly.

“Bilbo?  Something wrong?” Kili nudged him to get his attention.  

Bilbo took a deep breath and schooled his features into something neutral.  “I... I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He forced a smile and ruffled Kili’s hair affectionately, despite having to reach up a little to do so.  “Of course.  I’m just feeling a little tired, that’s all.  I think I might go lie down for a bit.”  He stood and tried to keep his pace even at his curt withdrawal.  “I’ll see you later.  And, uh... if you need any more help, I really suggest you speak with Balin, or one of your other kin.  Um... bye!”

He all but sprinted back down the path, hesitating at a crossway while he tried to remember in which direction his room lay.  Making up his mind, he turned to the right, glancing over his shoulder to make certain that Kili wasn’t trying to follow him.  But of course, such an action would naturally result in a small collision with someone as he ran without looking.

“Oof!”  Whoever he struck was quite solid, and had grabbed his flailing hand, thereby preventing him from falling flat on his backside.  “Thanks, I...”  He gulped when he met an icy blue glare.  “T-Thorin!”  

The dwarf king glowered down at him, his jaw set tight.  “Watch it, halfling!” he growled.  Oddly enough, he did not immediately release Bilbo’s hand.

“S-sorry!” Bilbo squeaked.  He wrenched his hand free and backed away, giving Thorin a wide berth as he passed him and resumed his retreat.

Several elves and a few of his wandering dwarven companions hailed him as he passed through Elrond’s halls, concern etched in their features.  Bilbo brushed aside any comments as politely as possible and slowed his jog to a rapid walk.  Thankfully, no one tried to stop or follow him, and he was able to shut himself in his room with no other incidents.  

He waited a few moments to catch his breath, unsure if the heat in his face was from the exertion or embarrassed recognition.  Eventually, he managed to calm himself down.

Bilbo bit his lip and fiddled with the top buttons of his shirt.  Once they were undone, he peered down at his chest.

There was nothing visible as of yet, but there was no use thinking that the fluttering pulse in his ribcage was simply a result of stress anymore.  Talking with Kili forced him to acknowledge that these feelings, that he had thus far not named, was more than a fleeting crush.

Bilbo dragged himself to the bed, and flopped down on his back with his legs dangling off the side.  He groaned out loud and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“Bebother and confusticate you, Thorin Oakenshield!” he lamented.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarf’s eyes flashed to Bilbo’s chest. “Does that spell, the vows or whatever, still work if the one reciting them is not a halfling?”

“So you’ve been harboring feelings for Thorin since as far back as Rivendell?” Gandalf queried, obviously shocked that he had not noticed earlier.

“Actually, it was even before that,” Bilbo admitted.  He continued to observe Erebor as he went on, “I... I think I developed a little crush on him right away, especially after hearing him sing.  And it was his passion for the quest that convinced me to come along.”

He took a deep breath, exhaling a small, white cloud into the frosted air.  “But... if we’re talking about when it became deeper than that, I think it was during the Troll Incident.”

“Really?” the wizard pondered.  “As I remember it, Thorin was neither pleased, nor impressed with you during that particular series of events.”

Bilbo laughed, still a little ashamed to recall that episode even now.  “Yes, I know it seemed that way.  He didn’t think much of my getting everyone captured, of course, but later, he did sort of compliment me for staying calm under pressure, and for distracting the trolls until you got there.  But that wasn’t what drew me to him.”

He angled his head just enough to be able to make eye contact with Gandalf more easily.  “You probably don’t know this, but I overheard the two of you talking, that first night in my home.  Thorin told you that he wouldn’t ‘guarantee my safety’ or ‘be responsible for my fate’.  And up until that point, he’d been making good on that, never bothering to acknowledge me or help me in any way.    

“But then, during the fight with the trolls, I was captured first, and they threatened to tear me apart if the company didn’t lay down their arms.  In the moment, I fully expected to die right then and there;  I thought that there was no way Thorin would surrender for my sake.  It’s not as if he liked me at all, and he could just as easily find himself a new burglar if I died.”

Bilbo bowed his head with eyes closed, his lips pulled up in quiet joy.  “But... I was wrong.  Even though he was angry at me for being so careless, he was the first to drop his weapon.  No matter how he had treated me before, he still cared about me, just a little anyway, and wanted to protect me.  At least... that’s what he told me afterwards, when I asked why he did it.”

Gandalf said nothing to refute or conceed his account.

“Thorin took a huge risk for my sake.  He had no way of knowing how we were going to get out of that situation; the quest could have ended right then and there.  That’s when I knew that there was so much more to him than I had realized, and I started to like what I saw.”

“And yet you did not acknowledge what was happening until you spoke to Kili, correct?”

“Yes,” Bilbo hummed.  “And it only got worse from there.  During our journey towards the Misty Mountains, he actually tried to talk to me sometimes, usually about Erebor, and I really enjoyed our short conversations... even the ones that ended in arguments.  He challenged me to no end, but I when I took the time to pay attention, I noticed that he had other sides to him.  He wasn’t just this insufferable, condescending and downright rude dwarf with a chip on his shoulder.  He was a loving uncle that waited until his nephews fell asleep before he tucked them in, and give up his only blanket if they were cold.  He was a leader that expected the best of his followers, because he believed they were capable of meeting those expectations.  He was a friend that listened to facts about tea and books, toys and food, children and medicine... anything his company was passionate and wanted to talk about.”

Gandalf idly stroked his beard as he listened to Bilbo’s fervent speech about Thorin’s more honorable qualities.  Then he said, “I did not realize how much you’d come to admire him at that point.  When we reunited after escaping the Goblin tunnels, Thorin didn’t exactly have kind words for you.  I had assumed you’d had some sort of falling out before my arrival.”

Bilbo sighed, still a little hurt by Thorin’s harsh assumption that he should not have come on their quest, and had taken his chance to abandon them.

“I suppose that’s one of the reasons you chose to throw yourself between Thorin and Azog.”  At the hobbit’s affirmation, Gandalf added, “While not exactly the kind of reckless behavior I would encourage, it helped your cause, to some degree.”

“Mm-hmm,” Bilbo murmured.  He looked down at his chest.  After some consideration, he pulled off his scarf, and then maneuvered his hardened index finger between the layers of his clothing to rest on his skin.   With a another resigned sigh, he dragged the digit downward, easily tearing the thick cloth and dislodging every button.  The action left a great deal of his upper body exposed to the freezing elements, but he had already grown so numb that he hardly felt it.

Directly in the center of his chest was a dark green mass, slightly raised, and not too dissimilar from a large bruise in appearance.  It was about the same size as the Arkenstone, and was the epicenter of the pulsing light, a spark that signified life.  Tiny, innumerable branches and shoots forked out from it, spreading all across his torso, snaking across his limbs down to each fingertip and toe, as well as up to his neck.  It was like some great, intricate tattoo or a painting, and Bilbo was its canvas.

Gandalf studied the growing flora from his perch, the lines of worry lessening in the face of such simple splendour.  “It really is quite beautiful,” he whispered.

Bilbo observed his precious plant with a fond expression akin to that of a father, watching his child sleep.  “Yes, she is.”

Gandalf inhaled deeply, finishing off the last of the weed in his pipe.  “Did none of them notice before Ravenhill?  I know that you kept yourself well covered throughout most of your journey, but it seems remarkable that not _one_ of the dwarves, dense as they can be sometimes, would not at least catch of glimpse of it.”

“Actually, Óin and Glóin knew about it.  Oin thought it was an injury from falling in the Goblin Tunnels.  He kept trying to treat it and wouldn’t believe me when I told him that there was nothing he could do to help it. Glóin , on the other hand...”

* * *

Bilbo tried to keep mostly to himself while the company rested in the safety of Beorn’s home.  The skin-changer would not allow them to leave or provide them with provisions until he confirmed their outlandish story, so they were stuck there for the time being.  It was just as well, since Óin was adamant that Thorin needed some time to recover from Azog’s attack, but the wild gardens and rustic atmosphere were not made to accommodate a group of highly active dwarves used to stone halls.

Fili and Kili had fussed over their uncle during the first day, but once they were assured that he would be fine, they turned their attention back to more mischievous pursuits.  Bilbo had become an unfortunate victim more than once in the space of a few hours, so he was careful to avoid them.

The others were much more attentive to him as well, now that he’d proven his mettle in battle.  Most of them were simply eager for his account of what had happened to him when they’d been separated in the Misty Mountains, while others, mostly Dwalin, Bifur and Glóin , were concerned that his lack of skill with a blade would be a hindrance in the battles to come.  They were grateful that he had saved Thorin, but bravery and luck would only go so far.  The three of them then took it upon themselves to train him in the proper way to yield his little sword as often as they could.  

He supposed he should be glad of the opportunity; he could just as well hurt himself and his enemies with his inexperience, but hobbits were not made to be warlike creatures.  They were meant to nurture life, not take it.  He did not regret killing the orc that had threatened Thorin, but the whole ordeal left him with dark dreams and the perpetual scent of blood on his hands.

And then there was the whole Thorin dilemma.  Ever since the embrace on the Carrock, the dwarf king seemed to be everywhere, hovering over Bilbo or watching him thoughtfully from a distance.  Now that he had accepted the “burglar” as one of them, he had become far more approachable, and initiated more conversations with Bilbo.  He became more relaxed, more patient, and even smiled once in a while.

It was maddening for Bilbo.  He’d already had feelings for Thorin, but now that Bilbo was allowed to see his more tender side, now that he was finally a _recipient_ of the rare smiles and gentle touches he’d been fantasizing about, he didn’t know how to handle it.  It hurt when he and Thorin were at odds, but as long as there was that relational barrier between them, there was time to think and plan.  That was not so anymore.

His love for Thorin was growing deeper every moment, which of course meant that the plant in his heart was also growing at an accelerated rate.  Every kind word, every accidental brush of hands, and every fond glance was like water and sunlight, feeding both himself and the seed.  And whenever the dwarf left him alone or became irritated with him again, it was like being shut in a cold, dark room with no clean air.  It was like being suffocated.

It had taken such a long time just to earn Thorin’s friendship.  How could Bilbo possibly earn his love?  Was it feasible?  Would he be able to do so in time?  Was it even an option with a quest to complete and a dragon on the horizon?

And could he keep his feelings, and his condition, hidden from the others so as not to betray himself to Thorin prematurely?  

With this close-knit group of nosy, bored dwarves, it was not bloody likely.

“Stay focused, laddie!  No daydreaming on the battlefield, unless you have a death wish!” Glóin shouted, interrupting Bilbo’s thoughts.

Bilbo shook himself and returned his attention back to the task at hand.  His instructors had agreed that in most situations, he would do well to take advantage of his small size and speed to adopt a strike-and-retreat method of fighting, but that would not always save him.  So today’s lesson was focused on standing his ground and parrying attacks.  It was frustrating, not only because he would never be strong enough to overpower an adversary, but because he was too distracted and nervous with Thorin watching them.

He kept his sword up and on guard, but a single strike was all it took to throw off his balance. Glóin followed up on his first assault by bending low and throwing his shoulder into Bilbo’s torso, knocking him to the ground for the upteenth time.    

“Oof!  Ugh... that one really hurt, Glóin !  I thought you said that you were going to take it easy on me!”

The red-haired dwarf draped his ax across his shoulders and frowned.  “That _was_ easy,” he protested.  He held out a hand and assisted Bilbo back to his feet.  “Well, ya ain’t go much strength in ya, laddie, but at least you’re not flinching from the blows anymore.”

“Er... thanks, I guess.”  Bilbo winced and massaged his chest with the palm of his hand.  He was a bit worried that such direct blows might do some damage to the growing life within him, but he could not recall any tales that said such things were possible.  He was likely fretting over nothing, but he almost felt out of sorts if he didn’t have something to be concerned about.  Peaceful rest had not been afforded them as often as he should have liked.

A few of the others had been observing the proceedings from the sidelines of their little sparring circle, including a peevish Óin .  After tending to Thorin, he’d had his hands full seeing to the hobbit’s bruised and battered form and was not at all happy about having to deal with training wounds on top of everything else.

Before they could resume the exercise, he ceased hovering over Thorin and intervened, his medical kit in hand and already open.  “That’s enough for today, brother.  I’ll not have you reopen his stitches again,” he grumbled.

Bilbo let his shoulders slump as he breathed out, glad to be done for now.  However, his relief was short-lived and was given over to self-consciousness when Óin started clawing at his shirt.  “H-hey!”

“Come on now, off with it!” he ordered.  “I need to assess the damage.”

Bilbo smacked his hand and backed away.  “Must we do this in front of the others?” he hissed, forgetting for the moment the Óin could not hear him well without his ear trumpet, damaged though it was.  Bilbo had never been comfortable disrobing in front of others, and so far on the journey, he had been clever enough to bathe or tend to his own wounds away from the others.  And he usually stayed as covered as possible whenever Óin _had_ insisted on treating him.  Now he had even more motivation to keep his skin concealed, considering the visible change to his body.

Bilbo chanced a pleading glance at Thorin, hoping that he would take the hint and lead everyone else away in order to give him some privacy.  

Thorin caught his eye and reacted with a smirk and raised brow instead.  If Bilbo didn’t know better, he’d swear that the dwarf king was actually leering at him.  The thought made him shiver.

Glóin, at least, was more astute to the hobbit’s discomfort.  He dropped a heavy hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.  “Come, Master Baggins.  We’ll go in the house.”  He made a few wild gestures to Óin , who seemed to understand, and the three of them headed towards the building.

“You’re coming too?” Bilbo asked.

Glóin nodded.  His stance was easy-going but the crinkle of his eyes indicated a bit more concern.  “Of course.  Forgive me for intruding on your modesty, but I’d like to know if I’ve hurt you unnecessarily.”  Then he waved a finger at him in reprimand.  “Don’t think I don’t know about all those gashes and bruises from your adventure in the Goblin Tunnels.  Almost as bad as Thorin’s wounds, from what I hear.  We’d all see you in better fighting shape, but unlike Dwalin, I know the need to let things be.  You won’t be much good in a real fight if you’re too tired and injured from training, after all.”

“I supposed you’re right,” Bilbo agreed.  “Thank you.”

Glóin opened the massive front door to Beorn’s house and stepped aside to allow Bilbo and Óin to go in first.  

Bilbo glanced back at the others before they entered.  Most of the dwarves had already found other activities to occupy their attention.  Thorin was the only exception; his intense gaze seemed to have tracked their every movement as they left.  Bilbo wondered if he imagined the look of disappointment on Thorin’s face when they closed the door.

Óin rounded on him right away.  “Enough dallying, Mister Baggins,” he growled.  “Let’s see it.”  He handed his medical pack to Glóin and crossed his arms, foot tapping impatiently.

Bilbo resigned himself to the inevitable and removed his waistcoat.  He unbuttoned his shirt, wincing under the strain of moving his sore muscles and aching joints.  A shiver ran up his spine when his skin was exposed to the cool evening air, but that was the least of his concerns.

Much of his torso was discolored with bruises of various sizes and shapes, nearly all of them resulting from his nasty fall in the Misty Mountains.  He also had a number of lacerations.  The majority were small enough to heal without binding, but there was one significant gash on his arm that had required stitches.  Lucky for him, it was not on his dominant limb, so he could carry on most activities without trouble or alerting the others.

He was far more worried about the mark that had become visible near his heart.  It was small, for the moment, no bigger than a coin, but it was dark.  It might be mistaken for a bruise from a distance, but a close inspection, like the one Óin was performing, would reveal that it was something much different.  

“Stitches look fine; no tearing,” the medic mumbled as he picked at the thread.  He circled around the hobbit to look at every little mark on his upper body, his meaty fingers ghosting over the skin with a firm, clinical touch.  “No signs of infection on any of the open cuts.”  His eyes narrowed, pulling the lines of his face taut, and he shook his head.  “More contusions, though.  Minor, but many.”

Óin paused in front of Bilbo, his eyes now drawn to the blotch on his chest.  “This one shows no signs of healing at all.  Probably aggravated by my brother’s repeated blows.”  He threw a glare at Glóin , who looked somewhat apologetic.  Bilbo suspected it had more to do with his fear of Óin's temper than having caused him harm.

“That one’s not an injury, Master Óin ,” Bilbo tried to tell him, hoping to deter him from a closer look.  “There’s no need to worry about it.”

Óin squinted his eyes and leaned in to see it better.  No doubt he would notice the beginnings of tiny roots and branches if he stared long enough, so Bilbo took a step back and covered it with his hand.

“It’s fine, really.  It doesn’t hurt or anything,” he insisted with a raised voice.

Óin reached into a pocket and pulled out his flattened ear trumpet.  “What now?”

Thinking fast, Bilbo turned around and tried to point to a tender spot on his mid back.  “This one hurts a lot more than the others,” he almost shouted.  It was true actually, so he didn’t really have to put any effort to convincing Óin to focus his efforts there instead of the front.

“Aye, that one does look pretty bad,” Óin admitted.  “Lucky you didn’t crack any bones.  Have a seat then, and I’ll get some salve ready.”  He retrieved his pack from Glóin and found a chair to use as a table for his supplies.

While he was busy mixing various herbs and pastes, Bilbo eased himself to sit on a pile of straw and blew out a long breath.  Glóin followed and plopped down beside him, setting his ax next to him on the ground.  After a length of time, in which no one spoke, the dwarf released a noise that sounded like something halfway between a groan and a sigh.  Then he reached into his shirt and drew out a heavy, square trinket.

“What’s that?” Bilbo asked.  He’d seen it from a distance many times before; Glóin had a nightly ritual of pulling it out and looking at its contents, but Bilbo never had the opportunity to ask precisely what it was that captivated him so.

A warm grin instantly spread across his face.  “It’s a locket, Master Baggins.”  He released a tiny clasp on the side to open it and leaned over to show Bilbo the pictures inside.  “That’s my wife, Hildur, and my wee lad, Gimli.”

“Oh... um... they’re both lovely,” Bilbo said.  He’d never seen a dwarrowdam before, though they’d been described to him on several occasions, and Fili, Kili and Ori were his only close frame of reference for dwarflings.  He found both more odd than beautiful at first glance, but that was to be expected, considering the differences between hobbits and dwarves.

Glóin, it seemed, did not notice Bilbo’s awkward hesitation, as his smile grew impossibly wider.  “Aye... that they are.  Did I tell you that Gimli wanted to join us on this quest?  He’s already nearly as skilled as me with axes, but he’s still so young.  Neither Hildur or I would let him to come, and I don’t think Thorin would have agreed anyway.”

“Oh, well... that’s too bad I suppose.  I would have liked to meet him,” Bilbo said, quite sincere.  He hadn’t said much to the dwarves about it, but Bilbo adored children.  He was extremely fond of his many cousins and loved telling them stories, or playing hide-and-seek with them when he had the time.

“I’m sure he would love you,” Glóin assured him.  “Perhaps we can arrange for you to meet someday.  After we take back the Lonely Mountain, both my wife and son will come to live there with me.  I know you’ll be headin’ back to the Shire, once the quest is over, but you’ll return to visit us, won’t you?”

Bilbo hid a grimace at that, unwilling to reveal that such a thing may not be possible.  Instead, he nodded and said, “I would like that very much, Master Glóin.”

“Good!  It’s settled then!” Glóin gave him a hearty clap on the back, forgetting Bilbo’s injuries for the moment.  “Oh, sorry about that,” he chuckled at Bilbo’s wince.

“It’s okay,” Bilbo hissed through his teeth.  After his skin stopped tingling from the pain, he asked, “So what about your wife?  Do you think she’d like me too?”

Glóin looked up and rubbed his chin in thought, which was no easy task with his ample beard.  “Probably not at first, but I know she’d warm up to you.  Don’t take it personally; she doesn’t like anyone much.  It took me almost a decade to convince her to let me court her, and another couple of years to get her to marry me.  My Hildur’s a stubborn one, she is.”  He laughed, and there was a spark in his eyes when he spoke of his beloved wife.

“Was that unusual?  I mean... it it typical for courting to take years?”

Glóin lifted one shoulder as he snapped his locket closed.  “Depends on the couple and the situation.  Courting can last as little as a few months, or as long as a lifetime.”

Bilbo shook his head at the strangeness of it all.  “I guess that makes sense; dwarves live so much longer than hobbits, so I suppose you can take your time if you want.  Hobbits don’t have that luxury, for a few reasons.”

Glóin crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows.  “How long does hobbit courting last then?”

“Not long at all,” Bilbo replied.  “Most hobbits get married within a few months of courting, although ‘married’ is sort of a loose term, depending on how you look at it.  Hobbits are considered married, or committed to one another, after they recite the Uprooting Vows, which can be done in private or in front of witnesses.  We still hold wedding ceremonies, but they’re usually just a formality.”  He smirked.  “Really, weddings are just an excuse for us to have a party.”  

“Interesting,” Glóin said, nodding.  “Though I’m not sure I fully understand.  What’s an ‘Uprooting Vow’?”

Óin chose that moment to approach the hobbit, a little pot filled with a soothing and fragrant paste in his hand.  “Stand up, if you please, Mister Baggins,” he ordered.

Bilbo did as he was told, but he stood facing Glóin so that he could continue their conversation.  “Well, it’s like this...”

For the third time in their journey, he recounted the ancient tale of the hobbits’ encounter with Yavanna, and the change that she wrought in their being.  He continued on further into the story to answer Gloin’s question.  “ **The seed that was planted in their hearts would awaken and begin to develop when they found themselves drawn to another in deep and true affection, and the plants would grow as their love for one another did.  If their feelings were mutual and they were willing to devote themselves wholly to each other, they would each recite vows of eternal love.  This vow would be a prayer and a spell that invokes the power of Yavanna and the blessings of all the Valar, and it was the means by which the growing plants would be transplanted from their bodies into the earth, and thus the union solidified.** ”

Bilbo recoiled a bit when Óin applied his salve to the more sensitive areas of his back.  “In other words, the spell that’s used to transplant the seeds growing within us are also our marriage vows.  It’s up to the couple to decide if they want to recite them during a formal wedding ceremony or in private.  Time also plays a factor, but... well... I think I’d rather not talk about that.”

Glóin nodded.  “I understand.  Very fascinating, Master Baggins.  It’s all very strange to me, but I suppose I can see the romantic appeal.  Dwarves craft extravagant gifts for one another while courting and exchange them during our weddings, so you could say that there’s some similarities.  We both utilize the gifts granted to us by the Valar to show our love.”

“Exactly,” Bilbo agreed.  He kept a close eye on Óin when he got around to treating his chest and stomach to make sure that he did not look too close or smear too much balm near his heart.

“All finished.  Rest up while you can,” Óin ordered.  “And come find me before you go to bed tonight.  I’ll apply some more of this then.”

Bilbo agreed.  “Thank you, Master Óin .  I truly appreciate it.”  He retrieved his shirt and waistcoat and hurried to clothe himself.

Óin waved a hand and went to put away his things, muttering to himself.   

“I’ve one more question about your hobbit traditions, if you don’t mind,” Glóin said as he dressed.

Bilbo looked up from his buttons expectantly.  “What’s that?”

The dwarf’s eyes flashed to Bilbo’s chest.  “Does that spell, the vows or whatever, still work if the one reciting them is not a halfling?”

Bilbo’s fingers stilled on the hem of his waistcoat.  “Pardon?”

Glóin stood up and crossed his arms in the same manner as Óin .  The pose and the expression emphasized the family resemblance between the brothers.  “You heard me lad.  Can, let’s say... a _dwarf_ , recite the vow and complete your transplanting ritual?”

Bilbo tried to look anywhere but at Glóin's deliberate stare and cleared his throat.  “O-oh... well, there is an old story about a Took, that’s a hobbit clan on my mother’s side, taking a fairy wife, so I assume it’s possible.  All that’s really needed is that the person invoking the vow must be sincere in their love for the other.  It doesn’t work if their feelings aren’t real.  Other than that, there’s nothing to say it _can’t_ be done by a dwarf.”  He tried to soothe down the wrinkles on his shirt and asked as indifferently as possible, “W-why do you ask?”

Glóin chuckled and picked up his ax.  He walked over and slung an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, guiding him back to the door so that they could rejoin the others.  “No reason, really.  But it’s good to know that you’ll be okay, you know... in case it ever comes up.”  He shoved the door open with his shoulder and pushed Bilbo in front of him.

Bilbo gaped and went along with it at first, wondering if Glóin was truly aware of what he had implied or was simply guessing.  In either case, his inner musings ceased when his line of sight leveled with Thorin’s glance.

Bilbo dug his heels into the ground when he noticed that he was being more or less herded in Thorin’s general direction. Glóin only stopped urging him along when they were a few feet away, and became distracted by responding to Dwalin’s challenge to duel.

Thorin sat motionless on the ground, leaning against a tree and smoking his pipe.  He offered a small half-smile, his eyes roving up and down Bilbo’s form.  “Are you alright, Master Baggins?” he asked in a soft voice.

Bilbo shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and swayed back and forth on his feet.  “Mm-hmm.  Nothing time and rest can’t cure,” he answered with a shrug.  He was pleased to hear a note of true concern from Thorin.

The dwarf king inclined his head.  “In that case, you should sit down.  You’ve worked hard enough today.”  He shifted to make room for Bilbo.  “Come sit beside me, and let us talk for a while.”

Bilbo perked up and felt the pressure and warmth in his chest increase.  “As you wish.”  He complied and closed the distance, doing his best not to skip with absolute delight.  It was rather difficult, for both his limbs were nearly weightless with joy at receiving even this simple invitation from his love.  He settled himself next to Thorin, perhaps a little improperly close, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  

Thorin didn’t seem to mind either.

They flowed into an easy, pleasant conversation, and all the while, Bilbo felt his burdens and pain lighten in both heart and body, and he marveled that he didn’t float away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if the name of Gloin's wife is ever mentioned anywhere, so I just choose one from a list on a website about Tolkien's dwarves. If there is a correct name somewhere, please let me know.
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Even though I am not your intended ‘One’, I still love you, Thorin Oakenshield. And I will continue to love you for the rest of my life.” He forced a laugh. “However long or short that may be.”

Bilbo fell to his knees, unable to stand when a sudden heaviness began to creep up his limbs, starting at the bottom of his feet and flowing steadily to the middle of his legs.  It hurt, much worse than his hands had, and his muscles strained with the effort to try to remain upright.  He tried to get back up, but he had literally become rooted to the earth, for the clawing tendrils that had sprouted from the seed had overtaken his receding skin.  All those below his knees and on his feet had become true roots, shredding his trousers and digging into the ground to anchor there. Those above and up to his hips were shoots that enlarged, until they were joined together, transforming his legs into the beginnings of the base of a trunk.  Thankfully, his entire lower body began to grow numb after the initial painful burst, until he could feel absolutely nothing below his waist.  

“Bilbo?  Are you alright?” Gandalf stood and hurried over to kneel beside his curled form.  He set a hand on Bilbo’s back.

The hobbit nodded.  He was uncomfortable and a little frightened, but there was nothing that could be done for it.  He had always known _what_ to expect; in his tween years, his father made sure to explain everything when they had “The Talk”, but his predicament was rather rare.  Very few of his kind had ever endured the torment and consequences of unrequited love, and the ones that did could leave no record of their experiences.  His only frame of reference was the old story and general speculation.

It made him feel utterly alone, even with faithful friends like Gandalf at his side.

“Bilbo, does Thorin know about this?  Did you explain what would happen to you?” he asked.

Bilbo straightened his spine to “sit” up.  He swallowed the lump in his throat and shook his head.  “Thorin was always so focused on the quest.  He’s had a hard life; he fought so hard and so long to provide for his people and regain his home.  It would have been selfish of me to do anything to interfere, especially after I’d been so difficult at the start of this quest.  What’s the life of one hobbit compared to the grand scheme of things?”

Gandalf frowned, but Bilbo knew that he agreed with him in some measure.  A wizard was supposed to be a neutral party that saw the bigger picture.  He could not place the value of one person over countless others when an entire nation, or even the world, was at stake.  Nonetheless, Gandalf told him, “No one can be blamed for being concerned for their own life, dear boy.  Not even Thorin could begrudge you that.”

Bilbo tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.  Regardless, it did not truly matter at this stage.  “I... I did tell him how I _felt_ ,” he whispered.  “In Laketown, the night before we left for the Lonely Mountain...”

* * *

Bilbo sat on the edge of the dock outside the grand hall provided by the Master, away from the wild clamour of men and dwarves drinking and partying.  To everyone else, the promise of home and prosperity was cause for celebration, and it was easy to forget that a dragon yet lay between them and their goal when wine and ale flowed freely.  But rest and relaxation did not come easy for him, as he was now on the brink of fulfilling his purpose in this quest.  He knew that he would not sleep well when tomorrow might bring death in any number of ways, and facing one’s own mortality did not lend itself to joy.

Furthermore, his would not be the only life at stake, if he did not make some effort to speak to Thorin tonight.  Their experiences in Mirkwood had been the most trying thus far, but on the bright side, they had made some progress in their relationship.  Throughout the journey through the dark woods, Thorin had most often turned to him for comfort and counsel, and they had gotten to know each other quite well.  There were many instances in which Bilbo believed and hoped that there was indeed more than friendship between them, that Thorin might return his affections.  Unfortunately, their capture by the elves and the harrowing escape to the river in barrels prevented him from broaching the subject.

Come what may, Bilbo would have to tell Thorin the truth, if not for the chance to remove the plant from his body before stealing into Erebor, then at least for his own piece of mind in knowing that he had done all that he could to win Thorin’s heart.

Speaking of, Bilbo was just thinking of going to find him before he lost his nerve, when Thorin saved him the trouble.  

The stomp of heavy boots alerted Bilbo of his approach, followed by a half-hearted reprimand.  “I wish you would not wander off without telling me, Bilbo,” he growled.

Bilbo remained silent.  He waited and watched as Thorin came and sat down beside him.

“Though I do understand why you seek solitude,” Thorin said, his eyes fixed on the Lonely Mountain.

“Oh, I’m not worried about a little ol’ dragon, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Bilbo chuckled with false bravado.  “I just needed some air, that’s all.”  

Thorin snorted.  “Only a fool would not be nervous about facing Smaug,” he pointed out, voice clipped.  But it softened when he added, “If you wish to speak of your concerns, I will listen.”

Bilbo swung his legs idly and looked down at the water.  “Honestly, I’m trying _not_ to think about it too much... which is a little counterproductive of course, because the more I try not to, the more I do, you know?”

Thorin hummed in agreement.

“I wanted to come up with some plan on what I should do once I get inside.  And I thought I should try to figure out how I might handle the dragon, but all of my ideas result in me being eaten or incinerated.”  Bilbo tried to sound nonchalant about it the whole thing, but he failed to keep the slight tremor from his hands at the thought of death by fire.  

Thorin was quiet for some time.  Finally, he said, “I wish I knew of some way to put your mind at ease.  I was never adept at speaking words of comfort.”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo assured him with a smile.  “Just having you here beside me is comfort enough.”

Thorin inclined his head to stare at him with widened eyes, supposedly unsure of how to respond.  When neither of them could think of anything to say, Bilbo had to look away.  He just didn’t know how to interpret such a conflicted expression.

“If I could think of some other way to accomplish this task...” Thorin started.

Bilbo cut him off.  “Don’t.  You’ve sacrificed too much to doubt now.  You cannot risk this quest for the life of one burglar.”  He shook his head to dislodge further morbid musings.  “Let’s speak of something else.”

“Like what?”

“Well...” Bilbo drawled.  He wanted to ease them into a conversation that was more conducive for admitting his feelings, but he was not certain how to nudge them in that direction.  And even though he spoke truthfully of drawing comfort from Thorin’s company, he couldn’t really get past the notion that this long journey would be over in a few days, and death in some form would be his reward.  Hopefully, his dear dwarves would not share his fate in any way, and could build better lives for themselves once the dragon was gone.  “I wonder what it’ll be like,” Bilbo mumbled, unaware that he was speaking out loud.

Thorin nudged him with his elbow.  “What will ‘what be like’?” he asked.

“Huh?”  The movement succeeded to bring Bilbo back from his mental wanderings.  “Oh... I was just thinking about the company... a-and you.  I was wondering what everyone would do, once Erebor is yours again.”

Thorin looked back up at the mountain.  His face remained neutral, but his eyes betrayed his awe.  “It has been a long time since I have considered it.  It has always been my dream to reclaim our homeland, but I never dared hope beyond that.”

Bilbo could understand that.  “I think now would be a good time, don’t you think?”  After some thought, he added, “I sometimes find that challenges are less daunting when you know what comes after.  So dream a little!  What’s Erebor going to be like when ‘the lord of silver fountains, comes into his own’?”

Thorin laughed at Bilbo’s enthusiasm.  “I imagine we’ll have a great deal of cleaning up to do.  I doubt Smaug did anything more than gather up the treasure, and he’s sure to have destroyed much within the city.”  His mood visibly darkened with grief.  “And the remains of my people must be put to rest.  There has long been talk of constructing a memorial to all those lost when Erebor fell.”

Bilbo winced at that.  “I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.  The memorial I mean,” he clarified.  “And I suppose there will be a ceremony also.”

Thorin nodded.  “We will hold a great feast, with songs of lament and many tales.  And I shall personally meet with any and all surviving kin who return to the mountain, and see to it that their needs are provided for.  Only after that has been accomplished will I allow myself to be crowned king.”

“I thought you were already king,” Bilbo said.

Thorin gave him a smug grin, allowing his pain to melt away for the moment.  “I am indeed.  But the official rites were never performed, and there was no celebration.  I would be a sorry king indeed if I did not follow tradition.”

Bilbo blinked a few times, and then smirked when realization dawned on him.  “You just want to have a party for yourself, don’t you?”  It wasn’t really a question.

Thorin mirrored the expression and puffed out his chest.  “I believe I have more than earned it,” he sniffed.

Bilbo snorted, but he was glad that Thorin did not dwell too long on sorrow anymore.  “I can’t say I disagree, but I’m also inclined to believe that dwarves are simply over-fond of parties, especially when ale is plentiful.”  To prove his point, he indicated the hall behind them with a tilt of head, where wild laughter and drunken songs could still be heard.

“I fail to see why that’s a bad thing,” Thorin said.

Bilbo gave up on continuing that point by rolling his eyes, but noticed a window of opportunity to steer their dialogue towards the matter he truly wanted to discuss.  He ceased talking for a moment, considering his words, and Thorin resumed looking up at the mountain.

Once he thought it through, he began, “I find it all rather strange.  Hobbits have never really lived in “kingdoms”, and it has been a long time since we’ve been governed by a king or queen.  Technically, we still owe our allegiance to the king of Arnor, if there was one anyway.  I don’t know much at all about how monarchies work, except for what I’ve read in stories.  I’ve so many questions... about everything.”

Thorin sat up straighter.  “I’d be happy to answer some of them, if you like,” he told him, his voice laced with pride.  “You deserve the right to know more about our dwarven customs.  And it might be good for you to gain a better understanding, since...”  Thorin trailed off.

“Since... what?”

Thorin cleared his throat.  “Nevermind.  What sort of questions do you have?” he inquired in a rush.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pressure Thorin for clarification.  He had more important matters to seek, and he decided it was best to stop putting it off and try to dive in.  He feared to ask, but he kept it from his voice when he inquired casually, “Well, for starters, will you be expected to marry, once you are officially king?”

Thorin shook his head.  “The only requirement in that regard is that there must be a legitimate heir to the throne within our bloodline.  My sister-sons fulfill that role, so it is not necessary for me to take a spouse.”

Bilbo hesitated before he pressed a little further.  “Do you think you might though?  Even if you don’t have to?”

He shrugged indifferently.  “That would depend on whether or not I’ve found my One.”

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed at the undefined term.  “You know, Kili mentioned something about a ‘One’ before, but he never told me what it means.  Is that like a soulmate?”

“That would be an apt description, yes.  Most dwarves believe that when Eru laid the deep sleep upon our forefathers, he changed something of their design.  While they slept, he split their souls in half, leaving one portion within them while placing the other in separate bodies.  Some say it was a punishment and a curse for Mahal’s impatience, because it invokes great loneliness and despair in our kind.  But others think that it was a gift: since we are uncompromising and slow to change, the search for our One can help us grow, and teach us endurance and patience.”

The hobbit plucked at the fur lining on his borrowed coat, smiling softly.  He enjoyed hearing Thorin speak thus, with a passion that bordered on reverence.  He was so stoic and moody much of the time, perhaps only the natural result of his life’s hardships, but any time he talked about or reflected on more personal matters, like his family and culture, he was far more approachable and at ease.  “Do you know... when you find your One?”

Thorin glanced his way briefly.  “Some claim it is so... that they knew at first sight who their intended should be.  But as a whole, most would tell you that they know the same way everyone else does... through the time spent together and the gradual build of trust and love.  Eventually, there comes a time when we do unequivocally realize who our One is, but that is another long discussion in and of itself.”  He turned to face Bilbo more fully, raising a brow.  “Is there some reason you’re asking of this in particular?”

Bilbo met his gaze evenly.  “You gave me permission to ask you about dwarven culture,” he reminded him.  “I could try to find some books instead if you prefer, but they seem to be rather scarce, especially in the Shire.”

“The same could be said of hobbits, among all other cultures.  Your kind are insular as well.”

“You’re quite right, for the most part,” Bilbo conceded.  “But as far as literature goes, there aren’t a lot of books about us simply because there isn’t much to tell.  You can learn all there is to know about our ways in a month.”

Thorin’s lips quirked into a small smirk.  “I once believed the same, but there is one particular hobbit I know of that seems to defy all of my preconceived notions of their kind, in the best possible way.”

Bilbo chuckled at that.  “I’m afraid I’m not a very good representation of my people.  I think you’ll find that I’m more of an exception than a rule.  I was considered a bit odd even before I ran off with you lot.”

“I do not know whether or not that is true.  However, I am certain that you do represent the best that hobbits have to offer.  You are a marvel, Bilbo Baggins, and I’m glad you’ve shown me the error of my preconceived prejudices.”   His voice softened when he added, “In fact, I count knowing you as one of the few blessings in my life.”

Bilbo swallowed, feeling his face and ears warming in response.  “I... feel the same, Thorin.”

Neither of them moved as they gazed at one another.  Bilbo set a hand on his chest, feeling the gentle pulse of the plant contrasting with his rapidly beating heart.  His mind whirled as he tried to find the words to best explain what he wanted, _needed_ to say.  Thankfully, Thorin unknowingly helped him along.

“Do hobbits have Ones?  A soulmate?” he asked.

Bilbo leaned back and considered how to describe his own cultural background.  “No,” he said at last, “We don’t have someone that we are _destined_ to love or be with.  We are not half of anything or anyone.  However...”  With great effort, he kept his eyes on Thorin, mentally willing him to catch on.  “We only love once in our lifetimes, or not at all.  That is to say... we love all our friends and relatives of course, but we only ever fall in love with one person.  Once we have given our hearts to another, we can never love anyone else.  So I guess you could argue that we do have a soulmate, in a way.”

Thorin seemed to agree with him.  “The love of hobbits is deep, to be so devoted.  Much like dwarves.”

Bilbo tried not to fidget under that ardent and fond stare, and wondered just how much he should reveal.  “Yes, I suppose.  But it’s more than devotion that keeps us from ever loving someone else.  It’s...”

“Yes?” Thorin prompted when he didn’t continue.

Bilbo looked away, deciding it would be best not to get into too much detail if he was to go through with this.  He desperately fought to keep his voice from breaking and explained, “For hobbits, it’s not a simple matter of just staying true to the one we love.  By our very design, we become completely incapable of loving another.”

Thorin looked surprised and puzzled by the thought.  “What do you mean?”

“I... it’s not important.  I shouldn’t have told you,” Bilbo mumbled, more to himself than Thorin.

“Why not?”

Bilbo took a very deep breath.  “Because... I don’t want that to influence your thoughts on the matter.”

From the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of a frown altering Thorin’s good mood.  “You know that I have no interest in riddles, Bilbo.  Speak plainly.”

He turned back to look him in the eyes as he revealed, “If you insist.  The truth is, I’ve... I seem to have fallen in love... with you, Thorin.”

The admission completely wiped any expression from the Thorin’s face.

Bilbo smiled somewhat bitterly.  “I’m well aware that this quite improper... and most unwelcome, I’m sure.  I’m just a hobbit and you’re a dwarf king.  And I know that the timing is highly inconvenient.  But, well...” and now he gave an almost manic laugh and began to ramble a bit, “I’m about to face a dragon after all.  ‘Furnace with wings’, as Bofur so helpfully pointed out.  And while I am trying to remain optimistic about the whole thing, I also need to consider that I might not make it out alive.  And I didn’t want to regret not telling you.”  

In a Tookish fit of daring, he scooted a little closer to Thorin and placed his small hand over the dwarf’s much larger one.  “I don’t mean to be impertinent.  I’m not expecting you to say the same just now.  I just... the only thing I need to know is... whether or not I have a chance... with you.  Might you possibly feel something for me, just a little, beyond camaraderie and friendship?”

“Bilbo...”  Thorin shifted to face him better and took both of Bilbo’s hands in his own.  “I do care for you; do not doubt it.  You have become a dear friend and companion, if rather infuriating at times.  However...”

A great chill ran through Bilbo’s body at that word, and he realized that Thorin was likely unable or possibly unwilling to speak the truth that would undoubtedly cause him pain.  He deflated a bit, though he still smiled.  “I see.”  He gently pulled his hands free from Thorin’s grip.  “Well, that answers that then.  But at least now I don’t have to wonder.  Thank you, Thorin.”  He pushed himself to his feet, intending to head back to his room and get some rest for the big day tomorrow, though inwardly he knew he was just running away so he wouldn’t reveal his utter despair.

“Bilbo, wait!”  He could hear Thorin getting up as well, but thankfully, the dwarf did not come any nearer.  “Let me explain...”

“It’s okay, Thorin; I get it.”  He made sure to blink back his tears before he half turned and looked over his shoulder, staring at him seriously.  “I’m just not your soulmate, right?  Your One?  If that’s true, then there’s really nothing for it.  No need to worry.”

“But... what you said about hobbits...”

Bilbo nodded, offering one final, sad smile.  “Yes, that’s quite true, unfortunately.”  Deciding that he had nothing left to lose, he approached Thorin once more.  “Even though I am not your intended ‘One’, I still love you, Thorin Oakenshield.  And I will continue to love you for the rest of my life.”  He forced a laugh.  “However long or short that may be.”  Then, before he lost his nerve or Thorin decided to back away, he stood up on his tiptoes and gave his unrequited love a quick kiss on the cheek.  “Good night, Thorin.”

And with that, he swiftly walked away, only permitting the tears to fall when he was certain that he was alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time!


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can’t both die for this quest.”

Bilbo cursed his own weakness under his breath and rubbed his closed eyes with his coat sleeve, glad that Gandalf had retreated back to his seat for the time being.  He had promised himself that he wouldn’t cry anymore, that he had fully accepted Thorin’s complete rejection of not only his love, but also, thanks the Arkenstone debacle, of his friendship.  They had almost reconciled at Ravenhill, when Thorin believed he was going to die, but it was not complete.  If he had been sincere in his words, wouldn’t he have sent word to Bilbo by now?

Instead, he was left to draw his own conclusions.  Consequently, he had spent these last few weeks rationalizing the inevitable outcome, listing every conceivable reason why it only made perfect sense for Thorin to spurn his heart.  By the time he’d finished thinking it through, he had convinced himself that there were far more reasons for Thorin to hate him rather than love him.

Such knowledge did nothing to ease the pain.  Neither did reassurances from any of his friends.  Thorin was the only one who could heal the hurt, if he had a mind to, that is.

Bilbo’s eyes snapped open when his entire upper body suddenly grew hot, and the glow from his plant pulsed with a stronger light.  He looked down at it, and his lips parted in a soft gasp in response to the contracting pressure that had enveloped his torso.  It felt like he was being squeezed from the inside out, but the sensation was not unpleasant at all.  In fact, he had the distinct feeling that he was being hugged.

Bilbo’s face relaxed, and he let a few more tears slip past his guard.  “Thank you...” he whispered.  To Gandalf, he said, “It won’t be long now.  I think she’s likely to come with the dawn.”

“You’ve been referring to it as ‘she’ for a while now.  Might I ask why you came to do so?” the wizard said.

“I met her... in a dream.  And I also met... the Green Lady.”  He heard Gandalf rustling around and glanced up to see his reaction.  

“You met Lady Yavanna?”  Gandalf sounded as though he wasn’t sure if he should believe him.  

Bilbo nodded gravely.  “She was the one who told me how to help Thorin.  She also made sure to let me know what would happen to me if I did.”

Gandalf lowered his eyes.  “I see.  I had wondered if you truly understood the consequences of your choice.”  He lifted his head again and smiled.  “Not that I ever doubted you for a moment.  It simply serves to remind me that hobbits really are the most remarkable creatures.”

Bilbo blushed a little and shrugged.  “I think you’re overstating it a bit, Gandalf.  Honestly, how could I do anything less?  How could anyone?”

“You might be surprised,” he told Bilbo.  “It may not be uncommon for someone to risk their life for another, but to help someone knowing the full cost...”

“I... I just wanted to save him.  For his own sake, and mine, but also for everyone else.  The company... his nephews... they NEED him.  Erebor needs him,” Bilbo insisted, nearly glaring.  He took a quick, sharp breath and huffed.  “My fate was already sealed.  At least this way, it’ll all mean something...”

Gandalf didn’t protest, and Bilbo did not elaborate.

Bilbo tilted his head back to see the sky.  The horizon was just beginning to lighten in the distance, and the stars were fading.

He inhaled, filling his lungs completely.  Then he exhaled and closed his eyes.

* * *

At first it was pitch black, so much so that he wondered if his eyes were still closed.  

His head hurt beyond belief.  He vaguely remembered feeling a sharp blow, and then darkness followed, all-consuming like the bliss of a dreamless sleep.  Was he dreaming now?

He blinked once... then twice, trying to find something, _anything_ to focus on.

The next time he blinked, he was blinded by an explosion of light.  Bilbo shut his eyes tightly, scrunching his face, and waited, gradually aware of his body becoming accustomed to his unknown surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was that the atmosphere was warm, pleasantly so.  It reminded him of a sunny spring day in the Shire, when he would sit in his garden and enjoy the peace of a quiet morning.  The air smelled fresh and clean, like after the rain, with the faintest hint of lilac and honeysuckle drifting in the breeze.  And whatever he was laying on was soft and cool.  Bilbo chanced opening his eyes again, and found that his vision was clear.  

He pushed himself to his feet and found that he was in an unending pasture of flowers, the likes of which he had never seen or even imagined.  His humble little heart, that loved all things that grew, knew that such a place could not possibly exist east of the sea.  Therefore, there was only one likely explanation.  

“Am I... dead?” Bilbo inquired aloud.

He didn’t expect an answer, so he was appropriately startled when one was offered.  “No, my child, you are not.  But your beloved soon will be, if you do not act.”

Bilbo twisted his head and spun around, trying to locate the source of the voice.  There was no one initially, but a second pass revealed the presence of tall woman, standing still as though she had been there the whole time and was simply waiting for him to notice her.

The hobbit gasped and jerked so violently that he fell hard on his bottom.  He winced, and felt inclined to whine at the sudden intrusion, but he stifled the urge when he heard the lady’s soft laughter, like the echo of a birdsong in a quiet forest.  He saw her bare feet draw near to him, and his gaze followed the limbs upward.

The woman was dressed in an elegant, silk gown in hues of green and brown, which nicely complimented her sun-kissed skin.  Her form and face was elvish in appearance, but with an otherworldly quality, both beautiful and terrible to behold, so much so that Bilbo felt naked and small in her presence.  She had curly, nut-brown hair that flowed freely down to her waist, and eyes the color of emeralds glistening in the sun.  She wore few other ornaments, save for a golden band upon her finger and a crown of bright, happy flowers upon her head.

“ _Yavanna Kementári_...” Bilbo scrambled to kneel before her and bowed his head.  He needed no formal introduction to know the Lady’s identity.  Though he had never seen her before, and descriptions were scarce, he knew her the same way that he knew that the sky was blue and grass was green.  The knowledge was an instinctual part that no hobbit had ever had to formally learn; it was simply ingrained into their very being, a core piece of who they were.

There was a gentle weight on his head, and long fingers threaded through his curls.  He lifted his chin and flushed when he met the fond gaze of the Vala crouched before him.  

“Fear not, my child,” she said, her voice low and musical.  “I appear before you to render counsel in this dark hour, that the life of the one you love might be spared.”

The all-consuming awe that had gripped Bilbo and rendered him immobile vanished as her words sunk in.  “Thorin?  Is he okay?”

“He is fading...” said another voice, this one sounding much younger.

Yavanna removed her hand so that Bilbo could look up around her at the newcomer.

Hiding behind her was what appeared to be a hobbit-like child, possibly close in age to a tween.  Her little hands, which looked much like the branches of a sapling, greyish brown but smooth, were curled over one of Yavanna’s shoulders.  A round, curious face framed by mossy, raven locks peered at him from behind the Lady’s thick tresses, and big, bulging eyes met his.  One of them was a familiar icy blue, while the other was hazel, flecked with green and gold.

Just as it was with Yavanna, Bilbo knew her at once, and loved her.  “My _Eredhomë_...” he whispered.

Hearing her name, the child giggled and leapt at him.  She tried to sit in his lap and wrap her long, branch-like arms around him, but there was no bend in her limbs, and she had to content herself simply to be close.  “Papa!” she squealed.

Bilbo could hardly believe his eyes.  He was looking at his very own plant, alive and growing because of his love for Thorin.  In a sense, she was his child, or rather their child, the only one that could ever be between two males of differing races.  

He knew that the seeds planted in them by Yavanna were unlike any other, endowed with magic as only the Valar could bestow, but he had no idea that they were, or at least could be, sentient.  But the proof was in her ability to speak, her hobbitish appearance, and an intelligent but sharp gaze that reminded him of another.

“Thorin...” he mumbled, shaking away his momentary lapse in focus.  “You said that he was fading?”  He glanced back and forth between Yavanna and Eredhomë.

The child nodded, which was quite an accomplishment considering that she barely had a neck.  “I feel him, as surely as I feel you.  He’s leaving us.”  Her eyes shone with frightened tears.  “I don’t want him to go!  I won’t let him!” she wailed.

Bilbo could feel the blood leave his own face, and his hands shook.  It couldn’t be!  Not after everything they’d been through!  He hadn’t had the chance to apologize for stealing the Arkenstone yet.  He knew what end awaited him, but he’d prayed to Yavanna that all of his friends, and especially his beloved Thorin, would survive the day, that he might make amends and bid them a proper farewell.

“Fear not, my child,” Yavanna said again.  “I have heard your prayers, and have come to tell you how you may yet save Aulë’s son.”

“Really?  How?” Bilbo asked eagerly.  

Yavanna smiled and set both of her hands on his plant’s shoulders to pull her close.  “Your little one is the key,” she said.  “She was nurtured by your love for Thorin.   _His_ life helped give _her_ life.  She can give some of it back, if you both so choose.”

“How?” he wondered.

“If she can reach him before his spirit leaves his body, to pass into the halls of his fathers, she can root him to life, for a time.  She can keep him among the living, if she can convince him to remain and fight to stay alive.  Should he choose to do so, she can aid him until a healer sees to it that his body is stabilized and not in peril of shutting down completely.  Once he is no longer in critical danger, he may safely recover and remain in the world of the living.”

Bilbo searched Eredhomë’s eyes.  He knew it would not be as easy as the Lady made it sound.  Simplicity was rarely involved when lives hung in the balance.  “What are the risks?”

Yavanna’s smile faltered in a flash.  “She is young yet, inexperienced and unable to fully control herself.  If she does not spend her energy wisely, she would save him still, but would inevitably perish in the process.  What’s more, Thorin may refuse her aid, if death seems preferable to him.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Bilbo assured them both.  “I don’t think there’s a worry there.  He won’t abandon his family or his kingdom, not as long as there’s a chance.”  He crossed his arms and frowned.  “The bigger problem is keeping you safe,” he said to his “child”.  “I want to save him, more than anything, but I can’t ask you to risk your life, little one.”

“But I must!  I love him too!” Eredhomë insisted.  She bounced on her knobby, rooted feet and waved her hands.

Yavanna held her hand out to Bilbo.  He stared at it for a moment, absently noticing the rich stain of soil under her nails, before he understood what she wanted.  He uncrossed his arms and set his small hand in hers.  

“Neither of them need perish,” she said softly.  “She will expend some of her life for him, but she can recover it... by taking more of yours.”  Her words were heavy with an implication that Bilbo did not need explained.

Bilbo took a deep, shaky breath and then slowly nodded.  “What must I do?”

Yavanna did not seem the slightest bit surprised by his decision.  Even so, she asked him, “Are you certain?  You will have no way of knowing how much time you have left, but it will not be long.  It may not be enough for your beloved to declare himself and recite the vows.”

Bilbo burst out laughing.  It was hardly the proper thing to do in the presence of a Vala, but he couldn’t stop himself.  He laughed so hard that tears began to run down his face, but he could not be sure if they were of mirth or bitter sorrow.  He only stopped when Yavanna’s grip on on his hand tightened and his plant began to prod him with a thin finger.  

“Sorry... sorry!”  He gasped to catch his breath and wiped his eyes.  “It’s just... that’s not really something I need to worry about.”  He bowed his head, but put on a brave smile for Eredhomë.  “Thorin would never recite the vow anyway, so time isn’t really important.  The end will be same, regardless of whether it’s tomorrow or a season from now.  Frankly, it’s a bit of a relief to know that it’ll be sooner rather than later.  And this way, we’ll be able to accomplish the most good.  Nothing will be wasted.”  He lifted his chin and gave his little one a playful wink, “Might make for a good tale someday.  Sounds pretty good, don’t you think so?”

His grin faded when he saw the way both of them were watching them, mirroring the sadness that he was trying so hard not to show.

Yavanna placed her other hand on top of his, surrounding it with a tender warmth that reminded him painfully of his mother.  “Oh my poor child... how it grieves me that Aulë’s children are so like to him, so slow to speak the the truth in their hearts.”

Bilbo’s brow crinkled as he tilted his head.  “Pardon?”

Eredhomë tugged on his sleeve.  “We must hurry!” she implored.

“Oh, right!”  He agreed and hurried to stand, and Yavanna released him.  “What now?  What do we do?”

The Queen of earth stood as well, towering over him.  “Bring her,” she gestured at the flora, “to Thorin.  She will do the rest.  So long as you remain strong and keep her from working too quickly, you will succeed.”  

Bilbo glanced down when Eredhomë placed her hand in his and shook his arm.  “Come on!  Let’s go!”

He squeezed her wooden fingers and made to run, though to where, he did not know.  But he froze and blushed when his face was held fast between Yavanna’s hands.  

A single tear rolled down her ruddy cheek, but her lips were turned up.  “ _Cenuvanyel rato_...” she whispered.  Then she tipped his head low enough to kiss him on the forehead.  

Bilbo closed his eyes, and for a moment, everything was dark again.

It was the pain in his skull that brought him back to consciousness.  The throbbing, which had dimmed in the "dream", until he no longer noticed it, returned with a vengeance.  He grimaced and forced his lids open, though they narrowed to dull the harsh, winter light that assailed them.  Giant shadows wheeled overhead, and he only half registered his own lips parting to murmur, “The Eagles are coming...”

He shook his head to try to dislodge the fog in his mind, and a hot spike in his chest flared, aiding his efforts to come back to himself.  He groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, his body shaking with cold, pain, and exhaustion when he forced himself up .

“T-Thorin...” he coughed, barely above a whisper.  He picked up Sting and glanced around, moaning at the additional pain caused by the movement.  “Thorin!”  

He stumbled towards the edge of a stony precipice, and saw the dwarf standing on the frozen river in the distance, overlooking the valley between Erebor and Dale.  Thorin’s back was towards him, and he was slouching; his shoulders shrugged at regular intervals while his neck craned back and forth, watching the remnants of the great battle.  He tried to take a step, but it proved to be too much, for he stiffened and fell to lie on his back.

“THORIN!”  Heedless of any potential enemies nearby and forgetting his own wounds, Bilbo picked a path down a broken set of stairs and rushed to his side.   

He collapsed to his knees beside the bloody and bruised dwarf.  Thorin coughed and somehow managed to turn his head at the sound of his approach.  “Bilbo...”

Bilbo shushed him and searched Thorin’s body for the worst of his wounds.  “Don’t move!  Don’t move; lie still,” he commanded, his hands already reaching for the crimson stain on Thorin’s abdomen.  He choked and gagged, horrified at the sight of so much blood.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Thorin gasped.

“Shh... shh-shh!” Bilbo steeled his nerves and proprietary to begin the task of peeling back the sticky layers of Thorin’s clothes.

“I... I wish to part from you in... in friendship.”  Thorin seemed strangely despondent when he uttered the last word.

“No, no!”  Bilbo turned to look him in the eyes.  “You’re not going anywhere, Thorin,” he insisted.  “You’re going to live.”  He turned his attention back to finding the grievous injury.  “We can’t both die for this quest.”  It felt strange to say such a thing out loud, and he was surprised at the venom in his voice.

Thorin sputtered, but Bilbo couldn’t be sure if it was because of his words or because of the blood in his own mouth.  “I would take back... my words and my deeds at the gate,” he continued, heedless of Bilbo’s assurances.  “And I...”

“No!  Just... just shut up, Thorin!  Save your strength!  You are not going to die.  I will not allow it.”  He finally pulled back the last strip of cloth covering the fatal blow and immediately pressed his palm over it.  “You’re going to be okay.  We’re going to save you.”

The heavy thud of stampeding feet drew his gaze away for a second.  Dwalin, Fili, Kili, and two elves,  Tauriel and Legolas (a stray memory supplied the names) ran over to join them.  

“UNCLE!” Both of the younger dwarves, likewise gravely injured and leaning on each other for support, fell on his other side.  The elves and Dwalin hovered behind, probably unsure of their place or how to help.

“He’s going to be okay,” Bilbo assured them.  He kept his one hand on the wound while the other tugged the glove free from Thorin’s palm.  He let the dwarf’s limb fall limp so that he could reach up and undo the buttons on his own coat as well as the other shirts beneath.  “I can keep him alive, but we need to get him to a healer, and fast.”  He glared up at the others, hoping they’d catch on.  “Well?  What are you waiting for?  Someone go find Óin... or Gandalf... anyone!”

No one moved.  Fili and Kili were clearly holding back sobs as they both held onto Thorin’s other hand, Dwalin stood up straight in a salute, and Tauriel and Legolas bowed their heads.

“Someone do something!” Bilbo shouted, irritated that no one seemed to be listening.  He released a frustrated scream and wrenched his coat and shirt open.  All eyes fell on his chest.

Eredhomë glowed proudly, her light spilling over to illuminate Bilbo’s face.  She was as large as jewel now, and her roots and branches were extending all across Bilbo’s torso.

Nearly everyone’s mouths fell open, and even Thorin’s eyes widened, though his breaths were becoming progressively shallower.

“ _Ann hernya Yavanna_...” Legolas murmured.  

Bilbo ignored them and took Thorin’s ungloved hand again.  He guided it to rest over his heart, to touch their Eredhomë.  He leaned over him and looked into his deep, blue eyes, nodding silent reassurances.  Then Bilbo closed his, and turned his face towards the sky.  He began to chant, quietly at first, but gaining in strength and volume with each repeat.  “ _Ai, Yavanna Kementári!  Menno o nin na hon, i eliad annen annin.  Hon leitho ngurth... Menno o nin na hon, i eliad annen annin.  Hon leitho ngurth..._ ”  Each time, the plant pulsed with a much stronger light, the golden rays enveloping both Bilbo and Thorin.  

Bilbo did his best to stay focused.  He was partially aware of the voices around him, some arguing, while others grew distant as their owners scattered.  He hoped that his actions had spurred them to move, to follow his commands to find a healer.  Yavanna had only said that they could keep Thorin alive; it was up to others to mend him.

Bilbo continued to speak, but his gaze fell back to Thorin.  The wounded king was still awake and alive, watching in awe.  He didn’t know whether it was because of Eredhomë’s magic or simply Thorin’s own natural allure, but he ceased to notice anything around him, save for a warm light, Thorin’s eyes, and his own voice.  His small hand tightened its grip on Thorin’s on his heart.

He had no sense of time or place.  He felt a tugging sensation from his chest, as though some massive force had gripped his upper body and was trying to pull him forward, but he held fast.  Fatigue gradually began to wear on him, but he fought it with everything he had.  He was certain that each wave of weariness was the natural effect of Eredhomë drawing strength and life from him, so that she could pour her own into Thorin.

He had no idea how long he kept at it.  He was so very tired, but until he had some sign that Thorin was stable, he could not cease.  At some point, Thorin had closed his eyes, but his breathing had eased.  He’d likely fallen asleep.

Bilbo was finally brought back to his senses by a heavy hand on his shoulder.  He looked up to find Gandalf looking down at him, his gaze glassy and all too knowing.

The hobbit blinked slowly; his nose twitched.  His eyes, which were dry and itchy, darted around to take in his surroundings.  

They were still in the exact same spot, on Ravenhill, but someone had put up a temporary shelter around them.  Blankets had been maneuvered to cover Thorin’s body, and another was draped around Bilbo’s shoulders.  His palm had been moved from Thorin’s wound, so that a healer could treat it along with any others.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo whispered.  He coughed; his throat was also dry and hoarse.  

“It’s alright, my dear hobbit,” the wizard said.  “Óin, Lord Thranduil, and I myself have seen to Thorin’s wounds.  He will live.”  His fingers gripped Bilbo tighter.  “You can rest now.”

Bilbo wanted to resist; he wanted to stay by Thorin’s side and determine the truth for himself.  But now that he was no longer captive to his self-induced trance, and his plant had ceased to draw energy from him, he realized that he had little strength left.  He could barely keep his eyes open, and every inch of his body seemed stiff and heavy.

He gave a shaky nod, and allowed Gandalf to pull him to his feet.  The hand on his shoulder tried to guide him to the exit, but he had only taken a few steps before his knees gave out.  He fell to the ground, his arms coming up just in time to brace him a little from a more painful impact.

“Bilbo!”

His body melted, arms flopping down at his sides uselessly, and his mind faded to darkness.  He thought he heard Gandalf asking him a question, pleading in some way, but he didn’t catch what it was.  He was just so very tired, enough that he wouldn’t mind if he never woke up.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish phrases (Again, I would like to reiterate that I am still doing a lot of research on Tolkien’s languages, so if I’ve made any errors, PLEASE let me know):
> 
> Eredhomë - seed of love
> 
> Yavanna Kementári - Yavanna means “Giver of Fruits” while Kementári means “Queen of the Earth”. As far as I’m aware, Tolkien never explicitly says that Yavanna had anything to do with the creation of hobbits, but most fandoms seem to say that she is at least held in high regard by them.
> 
> Cenuvanyel rato - I will see you soon
> 
> Ann hernya Yavanna - gift of the Lady Yavanna 
> 
> Ai, Yavanna Kementári! Menno o nin na hon, i eliad annen annin. Hon leitho ngurth - Ah, Yavanna Kementári,  
> May the blessing that was given to me, be sent from me to him. May he be released from death; This is the same general incantation used by Tauriel and Arwen on Kili and Frodo respectively in the movies. Normally, this would be attributed solely to elves, but since Bilbo’s using a specific gift touched by the Valar, I feel that it’s appropriate to borrow it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have tarried too long in the woods of my people. I see now that I am wholly ignorant of the world, for never have I thought to encounter such a wondrous creature. You freely accept who and what you are, and yet you still cling to an impossible love.”

The hobbit could still hear Gandalf speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words anymore.  The sights and sounds around him were becoming hazy and muffled, not unlike what he experienced whenever he wore the Ring, though the world did not become shadowed in shades of black and grey.  He was starting to feel drowsy, and he knew that when he fell asleep this time, he would remain so, until winter passed and Eredhomë was strong enough without him.

Bilbo jolted awake and screamed when a sharp pain shot straight up his back, forcing him to straighten unnaturally tall.  He had little time to catch his breath or brace himself before a second and third shock ran from the base of his spine and through his arms, first his right and then his left, pulling them up and away from his sides.  They were outstretched towards the sky, like the great branches of a tree, and remained there, beyond his control.  He half imagined that the jerky motions made him look like a marionette controlled by invisible strings, but he had no mind to appreciate the clever comparison.

As with his hands, the internal structures of his back and limbs were being forcibly altered in order to make room and integrate with Eredhomë.  Her branches and shoots, which were previously visible just beneath his skin, enlarged and stretched over it, once more tearing his clothes until they were little more than tattered shreds.  His joints solidified in place.  His head and neck were now that only parts he could still move of his own will.

“...lbo... Bilbo!”

He counted to ten and took deep breaths for several minutes, waiting for the wrenching, stabbing pain to subside.  His face was slicked with a sheen of cold sweat, and tears flowed freely in little rivers.

A gentle hand cupped his cheek, and feminine voice implored, “ _Dartha, mellon!_  You must not give up!  He is coming; Thorin is coming for you!  So please, hold on!”

Bilbo lifted his head to find that Tauriel had returned.  She was kneeling beside him again, and her eyes were wide with fear.

“T-Tauriel...” he managed.  “I-it’s okay.  It’s a-almost over...”

She shook her head.  “You must hold on,” she commanded.  “Please.  It was not of a lack of affection that prevented Thorin from seeking you, but rather fear and shame.  You cannot fade without knowing the truth.”

Bilbo laughed a little.  It seemed ironic that the individual he had known for the least amount of time should seem the most desperate to keep him.  “P-please don’t worry about me,” he begged her, not for the first time.  “It will be alright.  I promise.”

“I know you believe that,” Tauriel said.  “And I know that you will be well received in peace and plenty in the pastures of Yavanna.  But what of us?  What of those who must wait here, mourning a friend who has gone beyond our reach?  What of those who have been enriched by knowing you, and would live in sorrow once you are gone?”

Bilbo inclined his head to lean further into her cupped hand.  “You will keep me close... in your memories.  And my Eredhomë will live on for me.”

Tauriel sat back on her heels and looked away from him.  Bilbo smiled fondly through his tears as he remembered the day they were introduced.

* * *

Bilbo returned to the waking world in small spurts.  The first time he was aware of anything beyond darkness, he saw a glimpse of a yellow light behind several shadows that were leaning over him.  His exceptional sense of hearing caught a few snippets of words and phrases.  The only ones he remembered were “dwarves”, “secret”, and “his choice”.  He promptly passed out again without making any sense of it.

The second time he came to, Gandalf was sitting in a small chair beside his pallet.  Bilbo groaned and cleared his throat to get his attention, and the wizard wasted no time in seeing to his needs.  He was given water and food, meager and bland, but appreciated nonetheless, and then subjected to a thorough examination from an elven healer he did not recognize.  

By the time it was over, he had very little energy to spare on questions, but he did his best to supply enough answers to sate Gandalf for the time being.  He dropped off before he got around to telling him anything significant about his little addition, or ask questions of his own.

The final time he woke, he at last felt refreshed and coherent.  For a long while, he lay unmoving on his side, away from the entrance to his allotted tent, with a hand on his chest to reassure himself of the life that still grew within him.  He felt certain, in part due to Yavanna’s warning, that she had grown beyond concealment, and that very little time remained to him.  He did not know how long precisely, but it would be in his best interest to try and put his affairs in order before the end.  

With that in mind, Bilbo rolled onto his back and stretched his arms over his head, yawning loudly.  Then he sat up and tried to rake his fingers through his hair, but a bandage wrapped around his head stopped him.  He didn’t have a chance to remember the reason for its presence, as the movement drew the notice of the room’s other occupant.

“Oh, you _are_ awake.  Good morning, Master Halfing.”

Bilbo was not surprised to find that he had not been left alone, but he was a little stunned to discover (Kili’s) redhaired elf observing him.  She was seated on the ground next to the entrance, likely so that she might keep watch over him as well as prevent any unwanted visitors.  With his waking, she hopped up, with the grace only elves possessed, and came to stand over him.

“How are you feeling?”

Bilbo shrugged and played with the edges of his blanket.  “Better, I suppose, though I’m a little hungry.”

“That it is to be expected.  You were with the dwarf king for three days, and slept for two, with only one meal over the course of all.  Stay here, and I shall see what I can find for you.”  She left with a wave of her hand.

Bilbo waited dutifully, but he fidgeted and his mind was racing.  Was the battle truly over?  How much time _did_ he have left?  Were the rest of his dwarves okay?  Was Thorin recovering?  

Incredible as it was, he didn’t think he’d be able to eat until he had some answers.  He threw aside his blanket and shifted so that he could stand, swaying on his feet from hunger.

She returned just as he was clumsily changing into the dwarf-sized, brown tunic that had been left out for him, bringing with her a steaming bowl of broth with a spoon and a tankard of water.  She raised a brow.  “Going somewhere?”

Bilbo flushed a little at being caught in his escape attempt.  He soothed down the creases of the borrowed clothes and looked around for something further, a coat and a scarf perhaps, that he might at least try to cover himself and his plant better.  “I’m really sorry, but I must find my friends.  Or Gandalf, at least.”

“Peace, Master Halfing.  I understand... You must certainly be confused, and have many questions.  Mithrandir himself bid me to watch over you and tend to your needs.  Please... sit and eat, and I will tell you whatever you wish to know.”

Bilbo eyed her dubiously for a minute, but for worry, not for lack of faith.  Her willingness to heal Kili of his morgul wound and then later aid him on Ravenhill had more than proven her trustworthiness.  He just felt a little uncomfortable, and perhaps a little hurt, that a stranger (more or less) was looking out for him instead of one of his friends.  

A wave of dizziness rushed over Bilbo, and he stumbled back to the makeshift bed.  “I suppose I don’t really have a choice.”  He plopped down, and didn’t bother to hide his glower.

Tauriel smiled down at him as he settled.  “I shall endeavor not to take offense at your lack of enthusiasm,” she said.  She handed him the bowl and tankard, and then sat down near his pallet at a respectable distance.  

“Thank you,” he said.  There was nothing in the broth that he could see, but he started salivating anyway.  The last time he was this hungry was when he and the company were lost in Mirkwood.  He set aside the spoon and lifted the bowl to his lips.

“You are most welcome.  Oh... perhaps you should slow down,” she advised.

Bilbo ignored her, and the resulting burns from the hot broth, and consumed the entire bowl in one go.  Then he picked up the tankard and gulped down the water.  He panted a little when he finished and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, foregoing any measure of decorum in regards to table manners.  “Ah... that was wonderful.  Thank you.  Could I possibly trouble you for seconds?”

Tauriel raised a brow.  “Of course, but maybe we should wait a little while.  I know you’ll need more, but if you consume too much at that rate, you may become ill.”

Bilbo snorted.  “Clearly, you’ve never seen a hobbit eat before.  It would take a lot more than that to make me sick.  We rarely, if ever, get sick because of food, even if it’s poisoned.

“Interesting, though you cannot fault me for being ignorant of your gifts.  You are the first halfling I’ve ever encountered.”

“Hobbit, if you please,” he corrected.  “And I understand.  My name is Bilbo, by the way.  Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”  He sat up straighter and held out his hand.

She nodded with a smile and offered her own.  “Tauriel, of the Woodland Realm, unfortunately known as Mirkwood these days.”

They shook hands as Bilbo confessed, “I know who you are, actually, even though this is the first time we’ve formally met.  You saved Kili and the others in Laketown.”  He decided not to mention anything of his excursion through their kingdom, or the role he had played in freeing the Company from Thranduil’s prison.  He wasn’t sure if she knew about that, but if not, he was not going to be the one to tell her.  It was never a good idea to antagonize immortal beings.

To his surprise, her pale cheeks became a little less pale, and she glanced away from him.  “Did Kili tell you that?”

Bilbo let himself smirk in response.  “Indeed, among other things...”

Tauriel cleared her throat and composed herself.  “Well then, you know of me, but I know nothing of you.  As I said, I’ve never met a _hobbit_ before.  If it’s not too much trouble, would you be willing to indulge my curiosity for a time?  I should like to know more about you, if you’re amenable.”

Bilbo reciprocated her friendly expression and agreed.  “Of course!  I’m actually rather flattered by the interest.  But first, could you please tell me of my friends, and the battle?”

“Oh, yes.  Forgive me; I’d forgotten.  You must be terribly worried...”

For a long while, she answered his questions and filled him in on current events, as well as report on the wellbeing of his traveling companions.  The battle had indeed been won; with Azog’s death, the rest of the orc army was decimated, and many fled back to the mountains, hate pursued.  The truce between men, elves, and dwarves was holding, for the time being, thanks in large part to Gandalf’s counsel and Bilbo’s selfless acts.

Thranduil had surprised many by tending to Thorin’s wounds alongside the dwarven healers, and though there was still a great deal of mistrust, it went a long way towards easing the tension between the two races.  After Thorin had been stabilized, he was removed back to the safety of Erebor, along with the rest of his Company and Dain’s army from the Iron Hills.  Bard and his men, as well as Thranduil and his retainers, retreated to Dale, but the vast majority of the elves camped outside of the city, to serve as a guard for the former residents of Laketown.  

That was where Bilbo and Tauriel currently were, because no one seemed to know just what to do with either of them.  Both had been offered forgiveness for their actions, but their banishments had not been officially lifted.  Until they were, they would have to content themselves with waiting, unless some other event or deed helped their cause.

“Mithrandir was adamant that you not be disturbed until you were well enough to voice your own opinions concerning your fate.  He seemed most distressed when he became aware of your... condition.”  Her eyes flicked to his chest meaningfully.

Bilbo’s looked down at his lap.  “I see.”

“Master Baggins, may I ask how you came to be in this state?  Do all hobbits have such strange designs upon their skin?” Tauriel asked.

He blinked at her for a moment before he remembered that she was wholly ignorant of his situation.  “It’s not exactly a design...”

“My lord Legolas called it ‘the gift of Yavanna’, but he would not tell me what it means.  I have neither seen nor heard of such a strange occurrence, but - as I’ve said - I know very little of hobbits.”

Bilbo considered ignoring her questions, or stretching the truth a bit.  At this point, he had grown rather tired of repeating himself, and part of him wanted to just give up on absolutely everything.  Yet, he could hardly resist such an earnest and eager face, and it might be nice to finally tell someone the whole story and confide his feelings in one who might understand, in a way.

“Well, Tauriel...”

He began his story by giving her some background of hobbits in general, that she might better comprehend the nature of his race.  He followed that by launching into the tale that determined his fate, reciting it now to its conclusion.  “... **If their feelings were mutual and they were willing to devote themselves wholly to each other, they would each recite vows of eternal love.  This vow would be a prayer and a spell that invokes the power of Yavanna and the blessings of all the Valar, and it was the means by which the growing plants would be transplanted from their bodies into the earth, and thus the union solidified.**

**“The hobbits were quite excited by the offer, but before they could agree, Yavanna warned them that this course was not without risk.  There would be no alternative way offered to remove the seed from their bodies, if their love was not reciprocated.  And just as a plant could outgrow and forcefully shatter its clay pot, overrun its bounds, or steal life from others around it, so it could do to them.  If it was not removed from their bodies, it would take them over and consume them, because the power of Yavanna, of stubborn growth and resilience, was in it.  Their lives would end, and their spirits would go to the place decreed for them.  But the life of the plant would carry on.**

**“Even so, the hobbits’ love of all growing things, and their desire to see the world restored outweighed the risks, and they thought the whole idea poignantly beautiful.  They consented and submitted their all to Yavanna, to use as she would to heal the world**.”

Tauriel contemplated the narrative for a bit.  “Then... you will die, if the growing seed is not transplanted?”

“Yes,” Bilbo affirmed.  “The plants that Yavanna put in us are stronger than any other, partly because of the love and life it takes from us.”

“How much time do you have?”

Bilbo rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn.  “Hard to say.  The seeds develop according to the depth of the love we feel, and the length of time it takes for it to truly take root.  The feelings can take a long time to develop beyond infatuation or friendliness, and if so, the plant will grow very slowly.  But I’ve heard stories of some almost exploding in a way, because of love-at-first-sight.”

He sighed and hugged his knees to his chest.  “As for me, my time has been shortened because of what happened at Ravenhill.  Yavanna told me that Eredhomë could help save Thorin, but she’d have to take more of my life to do so.”  Bilbo pulled the collar of his tunic open a little to look down at his torso.  “Judging by how far she’s come, I might have a few weeks left, at most.”

“That’s still plenty of time, isn’t it?  Your dwarf king only needs to recite the vows, correct?  Surely he can handle that, no matter his injury,” Tauriel said.

Bilbo laughed.  “Unfortunately, that’s not going to work.  Simply saying the words means nothing; they must come from the heart and be sincere, with a pledge of pure devotion behind it.  And Thorin... well... he doesn’t love me.  So either way, the end was inevitable.”

The elf narrowed her eyes.  “And that’s it?  You’ll willingly accept death as your only option?”  When he shrugged, she declared, “That hardly seems fair.  Is there no regret or disdain in your heart that you should perish while Thorin lives on?”

“Not at all,” he said.  “Well... I won’t deny that his rejection broke my heart.  And I am afraid of how everything will come to pass.  But I’m not really upset about dying, if that’s what you mean.  My Eredhomë  will continue to grow once I’m gone, and because of Lady Yavanna’s power, she’ll be able to help bring life back to the desolate lands around us.”  He smiled down at his plant proudly.  “When she’s old enough to produce seeds or flowers, they’ll scatter and take root more quickly than normal seeds.  Their life will nurture the land, and someday, it’ll all be green again.”

Bilbo looked into Tauriel’s eyes.  “While the men and dwarves rebuild the homes they’ve lost, I can help be a part of “rebuilding” the land itself.  And that, in turn, will help everyone, including Thorin, though they might not understand that.  Why should I be angry or sad?  It’s just a fulfillment of what I am.  So... I don’t really mind.”

Tauriel stared at him in wonderment for a long time.  Eventually, she shook her head.  “I have tarried too long in the woods of my people.  I see now that I am wholly ignorant of the world, for never have I thought to encounter such a wondrous creature.  You freely accept who and what you are, and yet you still cling to an impossible love.”

Bilbo smirked at her.  “Yes, well... those dwarves, especially ones from the line of Durin, have a strange way of endearing themselves to others, don’t they?”

She giggled and blushed a little when he winked suggestively.  “I suppose they do at that.”

“Anyway...” Bilbo began with a small sigh, “I think that’s enough of that.  Will you tell me more of yourself?  You’re the first Mirkwood elf I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to without battle or treachery hanging over me.  I’d love to hear a tale or two of your own, or at least of your people.”

Tauriel consented.  “Certainly; I’d be honored to share some of my history with you, _mellon_... if I may consider you as such.”

“I’d be honored,” Bilbo repeated.  “Um... but perhaps I could have something of a second breakfast first?”

Both of them laughed, and in the days that followed, Bilbo and Tauriel formed a fast friendship.  Once he had regained his strength, he aided her in any chores she imposed upon herself, no matter how low or undesirable.  

In one such instance, he assisted a group of men and elves, who were tasked with digging several great pits in which to dispose of the decaying bodies of orcs and wargs.  In one of them, he waited until he’d been left alone, and then, with great force of will, he cast the Ring in.  It was quickly covered by corpses, which were then burned and buried over it.  He didn’t know why, but he felt far lighter for being rid of it.  Somehow, he knew that Eredhomë felt the same.

He received few messages from the dwarves of Erebor, and none came to see him.  That, more than his impending doom, grieved him the most.  Gandalf visited him whenever he could, but being a wizard, he was busy with many things.  He tried to convince Bilbo to accompany him to the negotiations between the three races, but he wanted no part of it.

Through it all, Tauriel was a steady companion.  She became convinced that there must be some error, or that there should be some way to save him yet, but he continually assured her that there was not.

But that it was alright.  She was there for him, and that was enough.  It gave him great comfort to have such a wonderful friend and confidante in his last, lonely days.

Or so he told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translation:  
> Dartha mellon - wait, friend
> 
> Thanks for reading! Until next time!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Some part of me still believes that this is just a dream, a vision to comfort me in my final moments, but I don’t mind. If this is the last thing I experience before the end, then I count myself lucky indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this story in the series. I hope you like it!

Bilbo’s eyes grew heavier with each passing moment.  He was trying very hard to stay awake, for Tauriel’s sake.  She was steadfast in her conviction that he would saved as soon as Thorin arrived, but he was far less optimistic.  

A final, tingling shock prickled the back of his neck, forcing it up and forward.  Bilbo held back a pained sob and let his eyelids slip half closed when he felt his neck crack and elongate further.  He glanced to either side of him, observing with mild fascination as his fingers spread with loud creaks and grew ever longer, completing their transformation to small offshoot branches, and deep green leaves began to bud where his fingernails once were.  His arms, too, had fully transfigured into lateral branches, and soon enough, his head and neck would form the crown.

Bilbo blinked ever more slowly, his eyes reopening less and less with each movement.  His head nodded a few times and jerked back up, though it was barely noticeable.

He was so weak and tired.  He wanted it to be over.  He was ready.

“BILBO!  BILBO, NO!”

His eyes opened to tiny slits.  His vision was blurred, and growing dimmer, but he would recognize that silhouette anywhere.  He forced his head up just a fraction, and smiled at the dwarf running towards him.

“Thor... in....”

Bilbo exhaled as his head dropped down.  Any thoughts he might have had vanished when the sleep finally claimed him.

He closed his eyes, and his mind faded away.

* * *

Bilbo knew that he would not wake in the pastures of Yavanna immediately.  Even though Eredhomë had taken over his body, it was alive, for the time being.  She was still taking strength and life from it to sustain herself, but eventually, they would fully integrate.  From then on, she would receive her nutrients from the earth and sun, as all trees did.

He imagined that he’d simply sleep until then, knowing nothing, but he seemed to have passed into a dream of some sort.  There was light all around him, but it was soft and colorful, like the setting sun.  He was seated on the ground in an enclosed space similar to a cage, like those in Mirkwood.

Large, thick tree roots and interwoven branches surrounded him on all sides, and when he looked further, he saw that they continued on in every direction.  It reminded him of a woodland labyrinth, like the Old Forest back in the Shire, but it had a far more wholesome feel to it.  Those directly around him appeared to serve as “bars” for his enclosure.  

Bilbo pushed himself to his feet and approached a set of roots.  He reached out and set a hand on the nearest one.  He wondered if he was supposed to wait or if he might find a way out of the small space to move around.  

As though to answer his internal inquiry, the root he was touching and the one next to it shifted aside, creating an opening large enough for him to squeeze through.  He hesitated for some time, but ultimately decided that he was meant to take the path.  

Bilbo straightened his (surprisingly intact) clothes, took a deep breath, and ducked under the opening.  Then he straightened and took a long look around.  It was difficult to tell with so many branches twisting overhead, but the light was stronger in one direction.  With no other option or inkling of what he should do, he headed towards it.

He labored through the dense growth, climbing and crawling his way forward, following the terrain as it curved up and down, his gaze ever fixed on the light.  There was no sound, save for those he made, and the air was still with expectation.  It was so strange; under normal circumstances, he would think that he should grow ever more tired as he went on, but the opposite seemed to be true.  Though he wasn’t really making any progress that he could see, he felt himself become stronger with each step, and his heart lightened.  He had felt this way before, when he had spoken to Lady Yavanna and Eredhomë in the dream.

He knew then that if he kept going, he would soon step over the bounds between life and death, and enter the ever green pastures of the Vala.  

“Bil....!  ...lbo!”

The hobbit paused just as he was about to stoop beneath a massive root.  He waited, almost sure that he had heard something.  He glanced over his shoulder, eyes darting back and forth along the darkening way behind him, but there was nothing.  No other sound disturbed the quiet, and with a shrug, he continued on his way.

He bent down to crawl under the root and then picked his way down a slope.

“Bilbo...!”

He stopped again and looked around.  He thought he’d heard someone shouting his name, but how could such a thing be possible?  He chastised himself for imagining that it was Thorin’s voice and went on.

It wasn’t long before he heard the voice a final time, this time nearer and stronger than ever before.

“BILBO!”

He tilted his head up and spun in a slow circle, searching for the source of the noise.  “...Thorin?” he marveled.

Loud, running footsteps and the creak of bending branches drew his attention towards the high, curved shoots overhead.  Bilbo’s mouth fell open when the dwarf king appeared, awkwardly climbing down and jumping from branch to branch where he could.  He was wearing the same clothes as those he’d had at Ravenhill, with the addition of a heavy coat that was similar to the one he’d worn when they’d first met.  No trace of wound or weariness could be seen on him, though dread twisted his handsome features.  Bilbo stared up at him when he paused to catch his breath.  

Deep, blue eyes lit up and a relieved smile curled his lips.  “Bilbo!  Thank Mahal!  I’ve found you!”  Thorin resumed the arduous trek down to his level.

“Thorin?  What are you doing here?  Better yet... _how_ did you get here?”  Bilbo unconsciously took a small step back when Thorin hopped down and barreled over to him.

Thorin stopped when he was less than a few feet away.  He panted for a moment more, took one big breath, and blew it out heavily.  Then he shook his head.  “That doesn’t matter right now.”

Bilbo huffed and frowned.  “Why are you here?” he whispered.

Thorin stuck a hand in the outer pocket of his coat.  From its depths, he produced a white stone, shaped and polished into the likeness of an Ambrosia flower.  

The stone was glowing unnaturally, and Bilbo recognized it at once.  “Is that... the Arkenstone?”

“It is,” Thorin confirmed.  “And it’s yours, along with my heart, if you’d still have it.”

Bilbo made no move to take the offered flower.  “I... I don’t understand.  How can it be?  I’m not your One.  You don’t love me...”

“I never said that,” he interrupted with a growl.  “I never said either of those things.  You didn’t give me a chance to explain.  And then...” Thorin looked away.  “... the dragon sickness....”

Bilbo crossed his arms and thought back to that night in Laketown, when he confessed his love.  With a start, he realized that Thorin was telling the truth.  He didn’t _actually_ say that he didn’t love him.  Bilbo had jumped to that conclusion himself when Thorin hesitated, and continued to believe it when there was no effort made to correct him.

Bilbo turned his gaze back to the stone flower in Thorin’s hand.  He recognized the shape as an Ambrosia at once, and while not the most beautiful of plants, his vision grew misty with tears when he recalled the flower lore of his youth.  Mutual love or “your love is reciprocated”.

“Thorin...”

His dwarf offered a small smile, though the rest of his expression betrayed his anxiousness.  “I’ve been working on this,” he gestured to the Arkenstone meaningfully, “for the last few weeks while I’ve been confined to bed rest, and Ori researched flowers and their meanings for me.  But you know I’ve no use for riddles, so let me say it plainly.”

Thorin closed the distance between them.  He took one of Bilbo’s hands in his free one, and then got down on one knee.  “I love you, Bilbo.  You ARE my One, but I was too blind to see it.  I know that I have no right to ask you for forgiveness, let alone your love, after all the ways I’ve wronged you, but I would never be content if I did not do all in my power to make amends and earn the privilege to call you mine.  Tell me... is there any hope for us?  Do you love me still?”

Bilbo stared at him silently, searching his eyes for any deceit, or some sign that he himself was hallucinating all of this.  But there was none to be found, and the warmth of Thorin’s hand holding his was far too pleasant to be the product of his own imagination.  

At last, Bilbo smiled and shook his head, allowing a few tears slip past his guard.  He gave Thorin’s hand a tug.  “Get up, you insufferable dwarf.”  He laughed at the pout on his face when he complied, but Bilbo was quick to lay his fears to rest.  He tightened his grip on their joined hands and reached for the flower with the other.  

He half watched Thorin’s eyes widen as he received the gift.  He turned it over and over, awed by the beauty of the object he once despised.  “I can’t believe you carved up the Arkenstone.  I know how much you treasure this.”

Thorin brought their joined hands up to rest over his own armored chest, where his heart was, and wrapped his other arm around Bilbo’s waist to pull him close.  “It’s just a stone,” he said.  “You are my _real_ treasure, and I was a fool to ever believe otherwise.”  With that, Thorin tilted his head and pressed his lips to Bilbo’s.

He froze for a fraction of a second, hardly daring to accept that this was happening.  But he wasn’t willing to let this opportunity pass, dream or otherwise.  He closed his eyes and kissed him back, matching Thorin’s desperation and fervor.

After far too short a time, he reluctantly backed away, grinning at the low growl from Thorin.  Bilbo let go of his hand so that he could reach up and place it at the back of his neck, to press their foreheads together.

“I love you too, Thorin.  I always have and I always will.  But,” and he pulled back again, “what now?”

Thorin’s expression bore the same determination that first influenced Bilbo to join the quest, the same stubbornness that saw them through the worst the world could throw at them.  “Gandalf told me that I must recite a vow, in order to bring you back from this place, but he did not know the words.  Tell me what they are.  I will make this, and any other vow I must, to keep you by my side.”

Bilbo lowered his head and closed his eyes.  “Thorin, I don’t know if it’ll work.  As far as I know, it's never been done so late.”

“It will; it has to.”

He bit his lip.  “But... what will happen to Eredhomë if it _does_ work?”

Thorin took both of his hands, the Ambrosia Arkenstone held between them.  “There is no way to know for certain.  But she is the one who brought me here.”

“Really?”

He nodded.  “Yes.  Bilbo, I know there are risks, but she is willing to take them.  And I will not let you go.  I will defy any power that would take you away from me.”

He chuckled, and couldn’t stop the silly grin on his lips.  “So dramatic...” he teased.  He tipped his body back just a tad, that he might try to read Thorin better.  “Are you sure that this is what you want?  I must warn you that you’ll never be rid of me, if this should actually work; I’m far too stubborn to be driven away.  I don’t have much to offer, and I can’t imagine what your people will think of me...”

Thorin raised their joined hands and mouthed chaste, but firm kisses to Bilbo’s fingers curled around the flower.  “I care not what others will think.  And I’ve already said that I will not part from you, not for all the gold in the world.  We will return to Erebor, and be together always.  This I swear.”

Bilbo stood on his toes and kissed him, but still did not let it linger.  “If you’re certain, then I guess there’s nothing for it but to try.  Some part of me still believes that this is just a dream, a vision to comfort me in my final moments, but I don’t mind.  If this is the last thing I experience before the end, then I count myself lucky indeed.”

Thorin clenched his jaw and glared at him.  “Do not say such things!  This is not a dream, and you are not going to die!  You’ve saved me many times over the course of our journey; it is my turn to save you.  Now tell me of the vow.”

Bilbo nodded, appropriately chastised by Thorin’s panicked tone.  “Very well.”  He stepped back a little more, but did not let go.  “The vow is meant to be spoken together, as normally it is recited by two hobbits, _each_ with a seed to transplant.  As you are a dwarf, I do not know if that is necessary.  But just in case, I’ll teach you the words, and then we’ll say it as one.”

Thorin grunted his acknowledgment.

It was simple enough, but it took him quite a few tries before he could repeat the whole verse without any mistakes.  Bilbo blamed it on the usual disregard dwarves had for growing things; such concepts were naturally foreign to him.  But Thorin was willing to learn so that they could be together, and the knowledge was rather humbling.  He calmed Thorin’s frustrations with soft kisses, and eventually, he could say it without any help.

“Are you ready?” Bilbo asked after he got it right for the third time in a row.

Thorin compressed his hands more firmly and nodded.

Bilbo took a deep breath; Thorin mirrored him and then they recited together:

“The seed of your heart, I will tend with care

I will nurture it always; through toil and despair

I will root to you, and you to me

and love deeper and higher than the tallest tree

I will be for you both soil and sun

and grow with you, together as one

This gift of Yavanna, I receive now with grace

And pray for her blessings upon this place

From this day forth, until I enter her bliss

I hereby vow, and seal with a kiss.”

They smiled at one another and leaned in, following the instructions of the final line.  Thorin let go of Bilbo’s hands so that he could hold him instead, one hand pressing against the small of his back while the other enveloped his shoulders. This time, it was a long while before Thorin released him, and Bilbo positively melted against him.  But eventually, Thorin broke the last lengthy kiss in favor of grazing his lips against Bilbo’s forehead as he held him close.

Bilbo opened his eyes and stared blankly at his dwarf’s strong chest, unwilling to reveal that he felt nothing to indicate that the spell had worked.  It didn’t take long for Thorin to come to the same conclusion, as he grew tense and looked around.

“Nothing’s happening…” he hissed.

Bilbo sighed and pressed himself closer, his shorter arms encircling as much of Thorin’s waist as possible.  He hadn’t had much hope, but he didn’t have the heart to curb his beloved’s resolve.

“Why is nothing happening?”  Thorin tilted his head back to look up, his face grim and furious.  “You said this would save him!  You said you’d let him go!” he bellowed.

“Thorin...”

He wrenched himself free from Bilbo’s grasp and walked around, spinning at times and circling the area, like a predator in search of prey.  He continued to look up, but Bilbo did not know the reason.  “Where are you?  We had a deal!  You promised!”

Bilbo’s lips twitched in a half smile, and he rolled his eyes at Thorin’s outburst.  With a shake of his head, he started after him, intending to embrace him, but he only managed a few steps.

A hot flare of pain shot through his chest, and when he blinked, he saw flashes of a strange vision.  In one instance, he was  watching him pace around, slamming his fists against a tremendous root in his rage, and in the next second, he saw only the top of Thorin’s head, leaning against Bilbo’s chest; he was somehow standing over him.

Bilbo choked on air and stumbled.  He clenched the layers of fabric on his torso, as though he could reach inside his rib cage and steady his rapidly beating heart.  He dropped the Arkenstone, and it bounced on the ground and slid towards Thorin.

His dwarf ceased his tirade when he noticed the gift land near his foot.  He bent down to pick it up, and only then did he see Bilbo’s predicament.

“Bilbo?”  He pocketed the flower and rushed back to his side.  “Bilbo, are you alright?”

Bilbo gasped and groaned and swayed on his feet, trying to find his bearings, but held up a hand to ward Thorin away.  The pain ceased to be a series of disconnected jolts, and instead became a continuous surge of wrenching, twisting pressure.  It grew more intense with every breath he took.  He felt as though there was a hand wrapped around his heart that was trying to crush it between its vice-like grip.

He could hardly make sense of that alone, but something in his brain decided to complicate things further.  His head throbbed and tormented him with flashes of hallucinations that rivaled those he battled in Mirkwood.  He saw Thorin here in this space, reaching for him, and then he was falling away in a completely different landscape, and his nephews were bracing him on either side.  One second he was screaming Bilbo’s name, and the next he was silent and faint.

Bilbo was alone in the darkness, surrounded by trees.  No... there was light all around and his friends were gathered near.  Thorin had vanished... Thorin was waking.  He’d never see Tauriel again, but wait... She was there all along; she never left his side.  

Bilbo moaned, one hand tearing at his curls and the other fisted his shirt.  

The agony that gripped his upper body reached its peak with an almighty burst of searing heat, and Bilbo screamed at the top of his lungs, eyes wide and wet.  His head lolled back and his arms fell to his sides.  His entire body shuddered and went rigid.  It was like his flesh was being torn from his bones, and his heart was being ripped out of his chest.

He had no idea how long it went on; it felt like an eternity.  But then the pain vanished as suddenly as it began, and the consuming fire coursing through him was replaced with biting cold.  He collapsed to the ground, instinctively curling himself as small as possible to preserve what little heat he had.

Bilbo clenched his eyes shut.  He was sweating but his teeth chattered.  It was only for a moment though, for something warm and heavy was draped over his nearly naked form.

“Bilbo?”

It took a few tries, but eventually, he managed to force his eyes half open.  A dark but familiar figure was hovering over him, and a firm hand touched his shoulder.  “T-Thorin?” he whispered.

The lines of Thorin’s brow creased with worry, but his mouth curved in a small smile that spoke of utter relief.  “Bilbo...  my Ghivashel.”  Ever so carefully, he maneuvered Bilbo so that he was holding him in his lap, taking great care to keep him bundled in the fur-lined coat that had been used to cover him.

Bilbo sighed as he was snugly wrapped in his dwarf’s arms, his head resting against Thorin’s chest.  He was exhausted and confused beyond belief, but he was content where he was and possessed little strength to resist.  He felt Thorin kiss the top of his head and then rest his bearded chin on it.  

Their moment of peace was short lived.  He had no idea what triggered it, but a resounding cheer startled him back to full consciousness.  It was then that he realized that the entire Company was gathered round, along with Tauriel, Gandalf, and Bard.  All of them were grinning or laughing; some of them were clapping, and a few even let out a few catcalls and wolf whistles (Fili and Kili).

Bilbo blinked up those at surrounding him blearily, blushing but smiling.  His gaze lingered on the faces of each of his dear friends, and he silently thanked Yavanna that he could still be here with them.

_“I am not the only one you should thank…”_

He sat up a little straighter, though it took great effort, and pondered the words that only he seemed to have heard.  He pulled away from Thorin, ignoring his grumbling protests, to look around.

Everything appeared the same as when last he saw it (he did not know how much time had passed), save that the winter sun now shone brightly overhead and his companions were all accounted for and mostly healed.  He was still on top of the cliff overlooking Erebor and Dale.

When he gave his surroundings a second sweep, he spotted small clusters of debris.  Upon closer examination, he realized that they were the splintered remains of a tree.

“Oh no…”  Bilbo picked up a nearby piece of a branch.  He turned it over and clutched it tenderly, as though it were made of glass.  “I… I can’t feel her.  What have we done?”

He should have known that this would happen.  It was always a risky business moving plants, regardless of whether it was a normal, everyday sapling from a pot or those grown in the hearts of hobbits.  They may have trouble taking root in their new locations or be unable to adequately adapt to a less controlled environment.

Bilbo should have been more diligent in weighing the risks of uprooting Eredhomë; her roots had been too deep and tightly wound within him for there not to be dire consequences.  But he had been so happy to see Thorin and learn of his true feelings, and perhaps there had been some fear he would not acknowledge, that he had been willing to ignore the possibility of loss.

He bowed his head and tears gathered in his eyes.  He felt Thorin’s arms encircle his waist, but he stayed still, frozen with a grief that his dwarves would not understand.

A long hand with slender fingers covered his.  Bilbo sniffed and lifted his eyes to see Tauriel kneeling before him, a small smile on her lips and pity in her expression.  “All is not lost, Bilbo.  Look.”  She inclined her head to draw his attention to something behind her.

Bilbo threaded his arms through the sleeves of Thorin’s coat, and laced a tie closed to protect his modesty.  He kept one hand on the folds of the furs to keep warm, and crawled around her, seeking whatever it was she wanted him to see.  He gasped at what he found.

Rising from the ground amidst the fragmented remains of their roots was a single green shoot, with the barest hint of tiny bud sprouting at the top.  It was so small, and oh-so-fragile, but it... _she_... had survived beyond hope.  They both had.

Bilbo rubbed his eyes with a fist and laughed quietly, unable to believe his luck.  Though perhaps, in the end, it wasn’t luck at all, but the will of a force greater than himself.

Now that they were no longer joined, she wouldn’t survive if left here in such a weakened state.  He would need to place her in another vessel, a pot or vase if he could find one, until spring at least.  Bilbo let go of the coat and proceeded to dig around the little one with his hands.  His fingers began to bleed from trying to force their way into the cold, hard ground; he wasn’t making much progress without proper tools.

A second set of hands, much larger than his own, joined his in their work, and Bilbo looked up to find Thorin concentrating on the task at hand.  Their eyes met and the dwarf graced him with a fond smile.  Bilbo did the same, and then they both resumed digging.

Working together, they dug deep enough to remove their little sapling from the ground, along with a little clump of dirt still covering the roots.  Bilbo cradled her in the palms of cupped hands, his fear for her life waring with relief.

Thorin stood and proceeded to help the weary hobbit do the same.  He took hold of Bilbo’s wrists, mindful of disturbing the plant, and pulled gently.  He wobbled on his feet, but Thorin clasped him by the shoulders to steady him.  

Bilbo closed his eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass.  He did not reopen them until he felt calloused fingers trail along his clavicle and up to his neck, the hand resting there so that a thumb could trace his jaw.

He wanted to tell Thorin that he was okay, but no words came, nor any expression of reassurance.  Everything was too uncertain.  He could scarcely believe what happened, and somehow still doubted that Thorin truly loved him.  He worried for Eredhomë, and he wondered what he should do, now that he was not yet fated to die.

Thorin moved his hand to cup Bilbo’s chin, tilting it up so that he could look into his hazel eyes.  “Come Bilbo.  Let me take you home.  There we will plant and grow this little one together.”  He let go of his face and reached for the coat pocket, retrieving the flower-shaped Arkenstone.  “By the blessings of Yavanna and Mahal, stone and seed will be as one, and Erebor will be both green and great, beyond any other kingdom of dwarves.”

Then Thorin smirked and dipped his head to whisper in Bilbo’s ear.  “And I will make you _truly_ mine, Ghivashel, now and always.  Never again will I allow you to part from me.”

Bilbo shivered at the suggestive tone, but overall felt a comforting warmth overwhelm him.  He had set out to help this dwarf reclaim his home, but love, and perhaps a measure of grace from the Valar, guided him to find one as well, in the heart of a king and beside his friends.  And when he was swept up in the arms of said king and passionately kissed, to the enthusiastic applause of his new family, he reflected that every moment of anguish and indecision had been well worth it.

And it seemed, by the flicker of light in the palms of his hands, Eredhomë agreed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some final notes:
> 
> I know that I’ve left a lot of unanswered questions but most of them will be addressed in the companion piece, “The Gift of Mahal”, which, as you might guess, will retell this story from Thorin’s perspective. Hopefully that’ll be something to look forward to.
> 
> I also mentioned in the first chapter that the inspiration for this story came from a second source that I didn’t yet want to reveal so as not to give anything away. Maybe some of you have guessed, but if not, then I’ll tell you now: the idea was inspired by the final episode of the anime [Wolf's Rain](https://youtu.be/Enj0O3PVHGg?t=7m). Go seven minutes into the video if it doesn't already start there. WARNING for blood and violence in the video though!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr under the same name. See my profile page for links.
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading, reviewing, and for your encouragement! I love you all; your comments are very much appreciated and never fail to make my day.
> 
> Until next time, my lovelies!


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